Brain Pickings

Posts Tagged ‘vintage children’s books’

21 NOVEMBER, 2013

To Live Long, Write for Children: RIP Charlotte Zolotow, 98

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Honoring one of the biggest hearts and most brilliant minds in children’s literature.

For those who hold children’s books dear, a little piece of the soul dies every time another beloved children’s book author or artist leaves us. It helps a little to know that the great Charlotte Zolotow (June 26, 1915–November 19, 2013) lived to be 98. (On a semi-serious aside: It seems that writing for children holds an especial promise of longevity, with many authors and illustrators outliving the average life expectancy of their homeland by years, often decades — Maurice Sendak lived to be 84, E. B. White 86, Ruth Krauss 92, Alice Provensen reportedly continues to draw well into her nineties, and Eric Carle just released his latest book at 84. There must be something uniquely soul-nourishing about the warmth and kindness that writing for children both requires and stimulates.)

Illustration by Maurice Sendak from Charlotte Zolotow's Mr. Rabbit and the Lovely Present (1962)

Although she authored and edited more than seventy books, Zolotow remains best-known for Mr. Rabbit and the Lovely Present, published in 1962 and illustrated by none other than Sendak. But the most influential relationship of her career was with the great Ursula Nordstrom, fairy godmother of modern children’s literature, who steered Zolotow’s collaboration with Sendak and with whom Zolotow worked closely for many years thereafter. From Leonard Marcus’s altogether fantastic Dear Genius: The Letters of Ursula Nordstrom (public library) — which also gave us Nordstrom’s witty, wise, and prescient 1953 letter on the state of publishing and the infinitely heartwarming story of how she cultivated young Sendak’s genius — comes the wonderful record of Zolotow’s formative relationship with Nordstrom.

Illustration by Maurice Sendak from Charlotte Zolotow's Mr. Rabbit and the Lovely Present (1962)

In August of 1961, when Mr. Rabbit and the Lovely Present was coming together, Nordstrom assured Sendak of Zolotow’s commitment to the project:

She is so glad you’re illustrating it, and so are we, that nothing can cloud our pleasure.

A few months later, on October 30, she sent a heartwarming letter to Zolotow herself:

Dear Charlotte—

Sendak’s pictures are so lovely for your (untitled) book! Utterly different from anything he’s ever done — with a timeless, classic quality: You’ll be happy, I know. The little girl is so lovely, and the rabbit is funny, a good combination, I think.

After thanking Zolotow for recommending a play Nordstrom had just seen and loved, and for Zolotow’s kind words about the only children’s book Nordstrom herself ever wrote, The Secret Language, she holds up a mirror of warm mutuality:

I can never tell you how grateful I am to you, dear friend and author. I’ve never had anyone — well, — be so generous and kind, certainly no AUTHOR — as you’ve been.

The longtime collaboration and lifelong friendship between the two began when Zolotow became Nordstrom’s editorial assistant at Harper & Row — a position that, under the influence of Nordstrom’s enormous generosity of spirit and creative bravery, no doubt helped Zolotow cultivate her own. In fact, she soon became Nordstrom’s right-hand-woman and was even the one to bring in Louise Fitzhugh’s hugely popular 1964 classic, Harriet the Spy, which queer women continue to celebrate for its trailblazing use of an apparently queer protagonist.

Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh (1964)

In a 2009 interview, Zolotow spoke of the interplay between being a writer and being an editor:

Being both a writer and editor affects different expressions of the same personality. Writers must shut out everyone else while they write. They must forget outside suggestions, or the temptation to follow suggestions separate from their own visions.

Editors must resist the desire to insert their own idea of how and where the story goes. They must resist the temptation to offer their own words as a solution when something is weak; instead they should alert the writer to this weakness, so that if the writer agrees, she may solve the problem in her own words and way.

When Nordstrom was ready to leave Harper, she bequeath her department to Zolotow. In a 1980 letter to another one of her authors, Mary Stolz, Nordstrom wrote:

I told Charlotte Zolotow many months ago that I wanted to slope off my job with Harper, and not be an editor any more. There are good things about it, always have been, but no more working with authors, dealing with contracts, worrying about the lack of reviews, or when there are bad ones, for “my” authors. Charlotte, as head of the department, is a brilliant and sensitive creative person. She will see that your work get the good attention I think you have always had from the dept.

Illustration by William Pène du Bois from William's Doll (1972)

And see to it she did — Zolotow went on to bring to life dozens of books for young readers, from her very first, The Park Book, published in 1944 and illustrated by H. A. Ray, to such delights as William’s Doll (1972) illustrated by William Pène du Bois and I Know a Lady (1984) illustrated by James Stevenson to her final book, The Beautiful Christmas Tree, published in 1999 and illustrated by the inimitable Yan Nascimbene, whom we also lost this year.

Illustration by Maurice Sendak from Charlotte Zolotow's Mr. Rabbit and the Lovely Present (1962)

Thank you for the many lovely presents, Charlotte.

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05 NOVEMBER, 2013

Little Boy Brown: The Loveliest Ode to Childhood and Loneliness Ever Written, Illustrated by Legendary Graphic Designer André François

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A timeless story of humanity and belonging, wrapped in a charming time-capsule of a bygone era.

“I didn’t feel alone in the Lonely Crowd,” young Italo Calvino wrote of his visit to America, and it is frequently argued that hardly any place embodies the “Lonely Crowd” better than New York, city of “avoid-eye-contact indifference of the crowded subways.” That, perhaps, is what children’s book writer Isobel Harris set out to both affirm and decondition in Little Boy Brown (public library) — a magnificent ode to childhood and loneliness, easily the greatest ode to childhood and loneliness ever written, illustrated by the famed Hungarian-born French cartoonist and graphic designer André François. Originally published in 1949, this timeless story that stirred the hearts of generations has been newly resurrected by the wonderful Claudia Zoe Bedrick, whose Brooklyn-based indie picture-book publisher Enchanted Lion has given us such heartening gems as Mark Twain’s Advice to Little Girls, Blexbolex’s Ballad, Seasons, and People, the breathtaking My Father’s Arms Are a Boat, and the boundlessly soul-stirring Little Bird.

This is the tale of a four-year-old boy living with his well-to-do mother and father in a Manhattan hotel, in which the elevator connects straight to the subway tunnel below the building and plugs right into the heart of the city. And yet Little Boy Brown, whose sole friends are the doormen and elevator operators, feels woefully lonely — until, one day, his hotel chambermaid Hilda invites him to visit her house outside the city, where he blossoms into a new sense of belonging.

Underpinning the charming tale of innocence and children’s inborn benevolence is a heart-warming message about connection across the lines of social class and bridging the gaps of privilege with simple human kindness.

Hilda’s mother kissed me before she even knew who I was!

[…]

Hilda’s family is smarter than we are. They can all speak two different languages, and they can close their eyes and think about two different countries. They’ve been on the Ocean, and they’ve climbed high mountains. They haven’t got quite enough of anything. It makes it exciting when a little more comes!

The story itself, at once a romantic time-capsule of a bygone New York and a timeless meditation on what it’s like feel so lonesome in a crowd of millions, invites us to explore the tender intersection of loneliness and loveliness. François, who studied with Picasso, illustrated a number of iconic New Yorker covers, and belongs to the same coterie of influential mid-century creative legends as Sir Quentin Blake, Tomi Ungerer, and his close friend and collaborator of Ronald Searle, brings all this wonderful dimensionality to life in his singular illustrations, all the more special given this was his first children’s book.

Immeasurably wonderful, Little Boy Brown is without exaggeration one of the loveliest picture-books of all time, with layers upon layers of meaning rediscovered with every read and each new look at François’s infinitely expressive illustrated vignettes, to which the screen does absolutely no justice.

Images courtesy of Enchanted Lion Books

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23 OCTOBER, 2013

Vintage Illustrations for the Fairy Tales E. E. Cummings Wrote for His Only Daughter, Whom He Almost Abandoned

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What elephants and butterflies have to do with the failures and redemptions of fatherhood.

In 1916, at the peak of WWI and shortly after graduating from Harvard, beloved poet E. E. Cummings penned an epithalamion — a poem celebrating nuptials — for his classmate and close friend Scofield Thayer’s marriage to his fiancé Elaine Orr. The newlyweds moved to Chicago and Cummings was drafted to serve in France, where he spent some months in prison for his unapologetic anti-war views. By the time he returned to New York in 1918, the Thayers were living in two separate apartments at Washington Square. Cummings’s old friend, who had risen to an influential position in literary circles, became the poet’s patron, supporting his poetry and even purchasing his paintings — a context that makes the affair Cummings undertook with Elaine all the more morally suspect, even though the poet knew his friend’s insistence on wanting to focus on work was merely a veil for his loss of interest in his wife. In May of 1919, Elaine became pregnant with Cummings’s child — something that threw an even more destabilizing curveball in what was already a triangle of impending disaster. To make matters worse, Cummings shirked his responsibility as a father and abandoned Elaine. Thayer, even though he knew the truth of paternity, stepped in to raise little Nancy once she was born on December 20, 1919. It took Cummings nearly a year to come around — in October of 1920, once it became clear that the Thayers were divorcing, he rekindled his relationship with Elaine and began seeing his daughter, who came to call him Mopsy, daily. The following year, the three moved to Paris, but Elaine, supported by Thayer’s alimony, lived comfortably in a large apartment, while Cummings, having lost his patron but bent on keeping the remnants of his dignity, lived the classic poor-writer’s life in his own humble quarters. He did, however, set out to build a relationship with his baby daughter, his only child, which he did the best way he knew how — by telling her original stories he made up for her.

In 1965, three years after Cummings’s death, four of these stories — “The Elephant & the Butterfly,” “The Little Girl Named I,” “The House That Ate Mosquito Pie,” and “The Old Man Who Said ‘Why?’” — were collected in a slim volume simply titled Fairy Tales (public library) — a fine addition to the little-known children’s books of famous authors, including gems by Mark Twain, Maya Angelou, James Joyce, Sylvia Plath, William Faulkner, Virginia Woolf, Gertrude Stein, Anne Sexton, T. S. Eliot, and John Updike.

The stories, while closer to fables than to fairy tales, are nonetheless charming and doubly so thanks to the gorgeous illustrations by Canadian artist John Eaton. I’ve tracked down a surviving copy of the original edition for our shared enjoyment:

Complement Cummings’s Fairy Tales with 17 whimsical songs based on his poetry.

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