Liars and Saints

 Like James Marshall, Tomie dePaola enjoyed fairy tales, nursery tales. DePaola gathered many of these into anthologies. (DePaola's attention span seemed limited, at least in this way.) An exception is the Cinderella story, which dePaola uses for a full-length book. His twist is to move the story to Mexico. Mexican talavera-style tiles frame the pictures. Instead of a slipper, Cinderella has a rebozo, an important shawl. "Once upon a time" becomes "hace mucho tiempo...." DePaola--throughout his career--shows deep curiosity about the world's cultures; his works include explorations of Passover, the St. Patrick legend, Las Posadas, Hanukkah, the Queen Esther legend, the legend of the Persian carpet, the legend of the Indian paintbrush. It's easy to imagine why he chose Cinderella; like "Bluebonnet" or "Indian Paintbrush," "Adelita" features an oddball character who endures hardship without a loss of morale. I'm especially ...

Two giraffes meet for a romantic evening. But one has a confession: he is, in fact, a weasel (in disguise). The artist is Jason Katzenstein--a student of my old teacher, Amy Bloom. Since Bloom is a known disciple of the picture-book writer James Marshall, it's not a shock that Katzenstein's debut comic has a "George and Martha" feel. George is frequently lying to Martha: he isn't afraid of scary movies, he isn't afraid of the high dive, he is committed to his new no-sugar diet. Martha must tolerate the silliness, because living creatures are imperfect, and love is love. Katzenstein's memoir--about obsessive rumination--suggests that he himself frequently feels like "fifty-eight weasels in a trenchcoat." This first cartoon is a display of Katzenstein's compassion for himself--an example of making something from one's own experience.  

 In 2025, diet is such a fraught subject. Then think about body image and think about children. It's hard to imagine that any contemporary artist/writer would tackle food and diet in a picture book. (Just try to script the various tense "sensitivity reads"--script these in your head.) James Marshall represents a simpler time. Though he writes about food, he does not mock his heroine (Emily Pig) for her weight. Instead, he (affectionately) mocks her for her self-delusion. In "Yummers," Emily Pig decides to commit herself to good health, so she begins jumping rope. But this is fatiguing. So, instead, she resolves to go "on a long walk" with her buddy, Eugene the Turtle. On the walk, the two creatures eat frozen pizza, sample a whoopie pie, inhale clotted cream, munch on jelly sandwiches, and slurp from banana-peanut milkshakes. Emily becomes ill and concludes that her problem is a natural result of "all this walking." Eugene recommends rest and...

  James Marshall named his famous hippos after the central characters in 'Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf." So he liked Edward Albee. I can't help but wonder if he liked yet another gay playwright, Thornton Wilder. Wilder wrote "Shadow of a Doubt," which opens with a ne'er-do-well in a tense conversation with the woman who runs his boardinghouse. And Marshall wrote "Rapscallion Jones," which opens with a ne'er-do-well having a tense conversation with the woman who runs his boardinghouse. Additionally, Rapscallion wears a Yale sweater--makin g a subtle reference to Thornton Wilder's alma mater. Rapscallion desperately needs rent money, so he ponders (1) marrying a rich widow, (2) writing a novel, (3) stealing from a pair of alligators. The alligators mistakenly think RJ is a doctor, and they're dealing with chocolate poisoning. "Just jump on your bed," says Rapscallion. "It redistributes the chocolate throughout your sys...

  James Marshall is among my favorite writers; when I imagine a "best case" voice for a storyteller, it's pretty close to the voice of James Marshall. Marshall is droll, gay, inventive, slightly bitchy; his main concern is what people say, and do not say, to each other. His stories are so much smarter than your standard picture book, it's as if he worked in his own bizarre field, population of one. There are James Marshall books; then, there is everything else. When "The Complete George and Martha" was published, an essayist noted that Marshall's own life resembled his stories. The essayist pointed to the pea-soup tale, in which George stains his shoes in an effort to hide his friend from a painful truth. The essayist recalled that he and James Marshall had a date, and Marshall bowed out because of "an injured leg." When the essayist spotted Marshall on the sidewalk--with a fully functional leg--he suddenly felt as if he had become Martha the h...

  James Marshall's George and Martha are frequently half-antagonistic; there is generally a disagreement in the air. I can think of two exceptions: "The Tooth" and "The French Lesson." Those stories are pure examples of romance. The hippos take care of each other and even indulge in a second of physical affection. The George/Martha spirit helped Marshall through his final project--an adaptation of "The Owl and the Pussy-cat." In this poem, like George, the Owl delights his beloved: He looked up to the stars above-- And sang to a small guitar-- O, lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are! The ensuing events are mainly acquisitions. The Owl and the Pussy-cat find a wedding ring. They persuade a turkey to officiate in the marriage ceremony. These small scenes allow Marshall to fill his pages with benevolent, strange, wordless secondary characters, who evoke thoughts of the bookseller and the ticket-taker from "George and Martha:...

  It's easy to think of Frog as perfect--but, actually, he gaslights Toad. When spring arrives, Toad wants to sleep for another month. He says, "Wake me up in June." Annoyed, Frog just tears several sheets off Toad's calendar. "Look, it's June!" he lies. Toad doesn't question the falsehood, and the story ends in this ambiguous and unsettling way. James Marshall rewrites this scenario. In his version, Martha gets impatient with a sleeping George--and just straps roller skates to the bottom of George's bed. Martha then pushes the bed to a picnic. But the act of pushing exhausts her, and she sleeps through the feast. (George has a great time.) The stories suggest that both Marshall and Lobel were thinking about consent and control. And they were bold enough to allow their "heroes" to act in unheroic ways. I appreciate that.

  The "Rabbit Hole" is a new picture-book museum in Kansas City, Missouri. It's not a series of framed portraits. Instead, it's like entering a video game. Each room is the setting of a famous children's story. For example, the world of Frog and Toad does not feature Frog, and it doesn't feature Toad; instead, it's a meadow of those famous brownish/green plantings, with Toad's mailbox, Toad's bed, and the frightening snake (see "Dragons and Giants"). You yourself play the role of Frog (or you play the role of Toad). I think this is so smart, because it seems to reproduce my daughter's experience of storytelling. It's clear to me that her idea of fiction is "porous"; she imagines she lives in a castle, when she watches "Encanto." She has not forgiven me for "Frankenweenie"--I think because she now believes a large mutant turtle might walk down the middle of our street. At the ticket counter, the vendor...

 Even late in life, Arnold Lobel and James Marshall were still conversing through their work. Lobel's Caldecott winner, "Fables," imagines a trip to sea. Lobster takes Crab, who is nervous about a storm. The waves are crashing; the gusts of salty wind sting your face. Crab has a panic attack, then he recalls that he is an aquatic animal. He is content to sink to the ocean floor, and he thinks,  Even a small risk can add excitement to this life. A standard Lobel message: We're neurotic, and we invent our own problems, most of the time. As you can predict, Marshall does something bitchier. He has George the hippo insist on a sea voyage. George describes his "craft" as a great ship, but it's a cramped raft; he tells Martha, "Use your imagination." The irritating rain is a "fun squall": "Martha, use your imagination." Martha gets angry, and she shouts, "Look, a shark!" Having panicked, George states that he is not amus...

  My favorite story about empathy is "The Book," by James Marshall. I think of it often in this house, when we're imploring Josh not to grab or swat at his sister, and we're forgetting to consider J's point of view. Sometimes, in my son's world, his sister is a usurper; all was well, and then Susie arrived, and an unwanted contest popped up. And who is to say this won't happen again, and again? We're asking for a great deal of depth and reflection from one growing three-year-old brain. In "The Book," George can't read because Martha is making chit-chat. The one sentence George digests, on the page, is this: "We must show consideration for our friends. Sometimes, we might forget to imagine their perspective." Drunk with rage, George believes that this line is a strong defense of his own right to be frustrated. He confronts Martha with the text. But, before he can speak, Martha says, "I'm sorry to talk so much. I was just...

 I've avoided writing about James Marshall for so long, and now please just bear with me. I have to describe one story that I can't stop thinking about. It's "The Fibber." How can you go wrong after that succinct, enticing title? It's George the hippo doing that thing we all do -- puffing himself up to impress another citizen. George casually mentions that he has been a champion snake tamer, and that he has smashed records in "the high jump." Martha grows weary, and she foists a stuffed snake on George. And George can't take this; he admits, "I told some fibs." And Martha gently says, "For shame" -- we can imagine that these words have a "loving" tone. I enjoy this because George behaves so outrageously -- and because Martha is a cool customer. I feel I have *been* both of these hippos. And I love the suspense; a lie is a transgression, and for a long while, we're just not sure if George will be "caught....

 2019 My son is born on August 3. We very quickly begin reading "The Complete George and Martha," by James Marshall. No other children's book will ever mean more to my family. Marshall's two hippos--named for Edward Albee protagonists--seem to comment on everything that happens in the world. Jealousy, love, competition, evasiveness, generosity, sacrifice, chaos, self-reflection, fear, ambition, scheming: It's all there. Each story has a minimalist touch, and layers, and a sense of humor that is accessible to a child. 2020 At one, Josh is "reading"  Madeline  with me. We sit in a beach house and notice the Seine, in the pictures--and, also, "a crack that had the habit....of resembling a rabbit...." 2021 Josh travels to Provincetown, and the two of us read "Rapunzel," by Paul Zelinsky. Is this terrifying story appropriate for a small child? Maybe not, but we like Zelinsky, and later we have more fun with PZ's version of "The Wh...

  How crafty was James Marshall? You notice something new each time. In "The Scary Movie," George takes Martha to a horror film. George is excited; Martha is not. But, in the actual movie, Martha discovers that she enjoys gore. By contrast, George has a panic attack. At the end, George can't confess that he is terrified. "You just take my hand," he says to Martha. "I don't want you to feel afraid." This story confirms for me that James Marshall was my twin; he was a gay man who enjoyed scary movies. But look at the first spread--included here. The text makes us plunge in; we aren't told the set-up, because Marshall trusts we can make inferences quickly. Look at the picture: George is wide-eyed, Martha is dismayed, and the vendor is intrigued to note the tension within this date (and neither hippo *notices* that the vendor is making a study of his guests). All of this is done with the lightest touch. (Finally, because the hippo stories seem to h...

 James Marshall, a gay man, might have had an unhealthy relationship with food. We see George the hippo dumping soup in his loafers; we see George enjoying too many cookies. An actual series -- the "Yummers" books -- revolves around a pig who can't control her appetite. The closest Marshall came to a depiction of a normal meal is in "The Stupids Step Out," I think. Here, the Stupids, tired from a full day, enjoy a feast at a diner. The main course is mashed potatoes drenched in butterscotch syrup. After the meal, the Stupids walk home on their hands, don clown costumes, and climb into bed, with their feet resting on the pillows. (Their heads dangle from the other end of the mattress.) And there is a brief moment of thanksgiving. Mrs. Stupid says, to her husband, "Thank you for the lovely day, dear. It certainly has been fun." This is Harry Allard's writing, allegedly, but Marshall had a heavy hand in the editing process. (And Marshall invented the ...

  If we paint and draw what we love, then James Marshall's illustrations must tell us a bit about James Marshall. A recurring Marshall image is the reader in a fluffy chair, by the fireplace, with the open book. Sometimes, a teapot and cup of tea are visible. (Tea also becomes a form of medicine, in "The Tooth," and a tea-crate becomes Martha's important furniture in "The Trip," in a kind of reference to the Boston Tea Party. We see the crate on a raft, just before the raft flips over.) You may spot a warm fire near the reader's chair, and you may spot cats. (Marshall returned, again and again, to the image of the cat.) Crucially, in "Goldilocks," the protagonist is surrounded by books--but we don't see her reading them. This is because she is foolish. The books belong to the virtuous bears. Finally, the classic Marshall image has a "summer" variation: In "Cinderella," the shoeless daydreaming bachelor prince is glimpsed...

 It seems to me that the George and Martha stories happen in perpetual, or near-perpetual, summer.  Chaos unspools at a local outdoor community pool. And the two hippos visit an amusement park--a classic summer stop. When George gets a job, he is lifeguarding at the beach. And a true test of the friendship occurs when Martha refuses to wear sunscreen before plunging into ocean waves. We also witness lounging-in-a-hammock, landscape-painting-among-palm-trees, and water wars "one late-summer morning." This is one of many ways in which James Marshall's spirit matches mine. I'm thoroughly ready for summer, especially a summer in which Covid has a diminished role. Maybe this family will spend some time with George and Martha as we get ready for the beach.

 "Yummers," a book by a gay man "about" dieting....strikes a chord with me. I'm not sure that James Marshall would write this book if he were just starting out today, because there is so much sensitivity around food, a sensitivity that maybe hadn't fully flowered back in the 1970s. Fine. But the book isn't *truly* about food. It's about self-deception. Emily Pig isn't feeling fully buoyant, so her friend Eugene Turtle suggests a nice, long, restorative walk. On the walk, however, Emily must stop every few yards for an ice cream sundae, a candied apple, an Eskimo pie, and so on. At one point, she says, "I feel awful. I can hardly finish my fried Oreo." Then she finishes her fried Oreo. The "health jaunt" ends with Emily confessing that she can't actually make the return trip home on two feet. "I'll take a cab," she says. "I'm just exhausted. It must have been all that walking." I like the turtle ...

 Now, when I read a picture book to Josh, Josh finds an *adult* novel and tries to "read along." This involves struggling to open the cover, then shut the cover, then open the cover again. There is also some random folding-of-page-corners. We're reading: *"Portly McSwine," about a talking pig with an anxiety disorder. This is possibly James Marshall's masterpiece, and maybe my favorite book ever written. *"Cookies." A gay man--Arnold Lobel--writes about two amphibians and their struggles with dieting. *"The Special Gift." James Marshall channeling Anne Lamott--ironic, surprising, prickly, compassionate. I'm off for the week. I'll be in North Carolina with my family. My chosen reading: "The Other Woman" (Daniel Silva), "Dead Wake" (Larson), "Then She Found Me" (Lipman), "My Ex-Life" (McCauley), "Last Call" (Okrent, a title discovered by my husband). Eager to get started.

 Midway through the love affair of George and Martha, George asks if Martha will accompany him to a scary movie. (It's my impression that James Marshall liked scary movies. The "Tunnel of Love" sequence--in "The Amusement Park"--seems to tip a hat to Hitchcock's "Strangers on a Train.") Martha is nervous, but George just ignores the concern. The two choose to see Vincent Creepo in "The Mummy's Toe." (One ticket costs five cents.) Of course, during the actual screening, it's *Martha* who has fun (while a frightened George pretends to look for his glasses under a seat cushion....Uncharitably, Martha speaks up: "You don't WEAR glasses....") The butt in the air, the fragile popcorn kernel in the giant hippo-fist, the wide-eyed scaredy-dog in the background: This is art. I'd very much like to be with Martha, viewing Vincent Creepo, out and about in the world again.

  I haven't written much about the love affair between my husband and my little toddler. It is what you might imagine. When Marc comes downstairs, there is literally always an elaborate game of peekaboo; Josh sometimes shrieks as he tries to track Marc's disappearing head. (The thrill!) Parenthood can do strange things; for example, it you can give you superhuman levels of tolerance for a short film called "Five Little Ducks." This is a cartoon in which a mother loses her ducks--one by one--until five have disappeared. There is a verse for every missing duck. Every. Damn. Duck. And my husband actually returns to this movie--with glee--several times per day. Both father and son like contact sports, so Josh will sometimes charge at Marc's legs--with his walker--and Marc will form a "human vee" at the last moment. Under the bridge! This Valentine's Day, my family is of course spending a great deal of time with the hippos George and Martha, and specifica...