Bookwitch

It was in Publishing News last year that I first found Oliver Jeffers, in an interview with, I think, Graham Marks. I was left with an impression of handsome biker, who was also the “in” illustrator of the moment, responsible for the World Book Day posters. I wasn’t all that interested, to be truthful.

By the time Oliver materialised at Simply Books on Friday, I’d worked up more enthusiasm, and by the time he was done, the enthusiasm level was really quite high, and not just because of the biker looks and the designer stubble. I even had the opportunity to start by translating Oliver’s request for a USB pen into something more intelligible, rendering me an aura of being almost useful.

His appeal must be fairly universal, as the people who turned up to hear him talk were of all ages, and whereas my tolerance for slide shows and power point presentations isn’t that great, this was interesting. How a picture book is made and why they are often 32 pages and how the text comes last in the printing process. And how the Americans will change his words if they don’t like them. Now, how could little boy running out of rocket fuel near the moon possibly be seen as too unrealistic?

I’d made several visits to Oliver’s website, and had had considerable problems with all the insects, until I finally worked out what’s what. And then he said he was thinking of changing it, to make it easier. I said no, not when I’ve actually got it, at last. Anyway, I’d had a good look at some of his “proper” art, and if the witch household had any spare walls, not to mention some spare cash, there would soon be a Jeffers on our walls.

Being slow (me that is), I didn’t make the connection with Hopper until Oliver mentioned it, but that will be why I loved “my” favourite painting instantly. And look, there is Hopper in the books as well. Couldn’t be better. Quite liked Michael Sowa, too, who’s another of Oliver’s favourites.

Oliver uses whatever paint feels right at the time, but seems to prefer acrylics, at least now. He also uses water colours, Dulux One Coat, and finds his white pen extremely useful. With the water colours he sloshes on too much water, adds colour and then tilts the paper from side to side, letting the colour slide this way and that. And I think Oliver said he rests the paper on a toilet roll, until the colour settles as he wants it.

He has, or had, two work areas in Belfast; one for making a mess vertically and one for making a mess horizontally. Makes sense, when you think about it. Right now he is living and working in New York, so his visit here is a short one, and supposedly so he can see his uncle. Oliver was born in Australia, grew up in Northern Ireland, which is why he has that lovely accent, and has lived in Sydney, before New York. So, very cosmopolitan. At one point he and some friends also kept posting a work of art across the Atlantic. They started with an empty book, and then added a picture, before posting it on, and on, for 36 weeks. Surprised it didn’t go missing.

His interest in how words and pictures go together made him experiment, and before he knew it he had made a picture book without meaning to. Among his favourite books by others are Maurice Sendak’s Where The Wild Things Are, and Quentin Blake’s Clown. Oliver feels young children make the best critics, because they get bored easily.

I’d say he is rather like an overgrown child himself, with his ideas. For one page in The Incredible Book Eating Boy, he photographed books which he and his brother threw into the air, to let them fall in the right way, before Photoshopping them onto the page.

After meeting a quantum physicist he thought about how people become intelligent, and took to combining oil paintings of people, with equations. Another unusual idea is to leave his mug of coffee on the paper, letting it leave a ring and then doing a picture round the coffee ring.

Oliver did typography at university, so is very keen on doing all the lettering in his books, even when it involves writing the copyright page in Spanish by hand four times because he kept making mistakes. When asked whether it’s important to have gone to university, he says it is, because then you know all the rules, before you go on to break them.

Among things he has done that aren’t picture books, is a poster for Starbucks, an ad for the big bookshop chain, cards that the Government sends to all new born babies, and something unintelligible about Orange priorities. And a Darth Vader helmet.

It doesn’t sound as if Oliver is man who struggles, but when he does, coffee helps. That and knowing there’s a mortgage that needs paying.

His next book is, supposedly, called The Great Paper Caper, and has something to do with FSC paper, but he won’t say too much. “A children’s detective thriller”.

Lost and Found is being animated, using CGI, and Oliver got his Mac out to show a short piece from the film. Absolutely adorable, are words that come to mind. However, putting his own nephew (Henry, I think) in the penguin compound at Belfast Zoo, doesn’t strike me as very nice. Henry was helping illustrate Lost and Found, but what they did find, was that he’s scared of penguins.

Well, so much for the man who wins everything or is shortlisted for everything. Good artist, but is he a good uncle? And he uses books from Belfast Central Library to paint on. Hang on; that’s what I was complaining about a couple of months ago, in regard to Daughter’s school…

And have I just lost an opportunity to interview Oliver properly in the future? This blog post is too long.

I once started a mental list of “journey books”. By that I mean stories that are one long and difficult journey, usually walking, from A to B, done by a lone child or a group of children. These books generally require hankies, both during and after.

Linda Press Wulf’s The Night of the Burning, which is now out in paperback, is a journey book. It’s about two Jewish sisters going from Poland to South Africa. While many Jewish stories are connected to the second world war, this one starts in 1921.

Another journey book is Last Train From Kummersdorf by Leslie Wilson. This is set in Germany during the war, but it’s not primarily about Jews. So again, that makes it a little bit different. Sometimes it feels as if all war stories set in Germany are about the persecution of Jews, when in actual fact there must also have been many other children suffering hardship.

The boy Hanno and the girl Effi end up in each other’s company, and they slowly make their way to Kummersdorf, to catch a train. It takes on a sense of not being real, and you somehow doubt that they’ll ever get to Kummersdorf, or if they do, there’ll be no point in having arrived. The story is based on real events, which makes it much more poignant.

I don’t feel you can have enough of these stories, whether about Germany, the war or simply as journey books. I can sense a whole series of journey posts coming on…

Don’t know if we have to be superstitious about this graphic book. Maybe not. After all, I’m sort of in it. I mean Macbeth, in his new graphic form. And he meets some witches, but none of them are anywhere near as good looking as I am.

As one of the enthusiastic quotes on the back says, it’s surprising nobody has done Shakespeare in graphic form before. It’s such an obvious thing. And an easy way to proper literature, I’d say. Thinking back to my university days, far too many people seemed to read the study guides instead of the book, rather than as well as. Not me.

On the other hand, I had never read Macbeth before, so this was a nice way of doing it. Shakespeare as a comic, albeit with a good many complicated words. But the pictures really help, and I’d hope the illustrations would entice young readers of the Bard. It can’t even count as cheating, surely, as it’s all there.

A comic full of well known quotes, half of which I didn’t know where they came from. But now I know it’s Macbeth. And a Harry Potter rock group, if I’m not mistaken.

If schools had money, this would be a good book to buy. But they never have any.

This sounds so awfully worthy that I’m almost ashamed. The Resident IT Consultant forced a copy of the New Scientist on me the other evening, saying I might want to read the bit on books.

They had talked to a number of scientists (what else?) about books that inspired them when they were young. Quite interesting, in a quirky way. Only the women dared mention anything vaguely childish in the way of books. Whether that’s because the men never were childish, weren’t inspired by children’s books or didn’t think it right to mention, will remain a mystery.

Alice in Wonderland, Doctor Doolittle, and Tarzan will have to count as children’s choices. Not sure about A Mathematician’s Apology, The Art of the Soluble, One Two Three Infinity, or The Mind of a Mnemonist. Wow. Heartily approve of The Foundation Trilogy.

Having got this far, I’m beginning to suspect that you won’t let me finish without giving you mine. It will have to be Five On A Treasure Island. And I refuse to blush. After that it could be many others, but perhaps I wouldn’t have those if I hadn’t had the Blyton to begin with? You wouldn’t be sitting reading this drivel if it weren’t for the Five. Makes you think, doesn’t it?

This isn’t MY cover picture, which I couldn’t find. Couldn’t even find my book to take a photo… But this is nice enough.

A title like Message in a Bottle is both sad and sort of hopeful, I think. So is this book by Valérie Zenatti, which has just been translated from the French. It’s a marvellous book, and yet another one for schools to put into the hands of all their students.

Valérie has written a short, but beautiful, tale about two young people exchanging emails. One lives in Jerusalem, the other in Gaza. It starts with an exploding bomb, and Valérie doesn’t shy away from spelling out the devastation that is caused in this way.

This is a book for everyone.

And as I happened to study the cover of the book more carefully, I discovered it comes recommended by someone I know. Small world. And we’re in agreement on this book.

I’ll take the Resident IT Consultant’s word for it. Or maybe Julie Bertagna can put me right, as it’s her book Exodus we’re talking about. Is there a THE story of Glasgow? Or is this A story of Glasgow?

Whatever. It’s very good. But before anyone gets too excited, I’ll point out that Exodus finishes, if not with a cliff hanger, then, well, unfinished. There’s a second book already out, and a third that I think Julie is almost done with writing.

Julie has flooded her home city of Glasgow, and most of the rest of the world as we know it. It’s the year 2100, and it’s all our fault that the future is this extreme. So one lesson is to start thinking about the environment a bit more.

This is quite simply a very touching and exciting and, above all, thought provoking story about some young people in the future, who have to try and survive in the world we left for them.

It’s not all dread and horror, though. A lot of fun touches, like pickled brains, antique Irn Bru and new uses for a MacDonalds arch. And love. Very romantic. I like that.

The description futuristic almost put me off reading the book, much the same as fantasy is a red rag to many readers. Exodus IS futuristic, of course, but more than anything it’s simply a good, really good, story.

I’ve got Zenith, which comes next, sitting ready and waiting, but can’t decide if I need to pace myself, as the third installment isn’t out yet. But I thought it was a nice touch on my part to accidentally start reading Exodus the day it finally was published in the US.

The witch rarely makes it to such exalted neighbourhoods as Mayfair, but there are exceptions, and Wednesday night was one. I was about to say that it was that nice man David Fickling who invited me, but it was more the lovely Nina Douglas. Anyway, it’s rare to be invited to anything, and that’s quite understandable, really. This time we got together to mark the publication of Siobhan Dowd’s third novel, Bog Child, and also to be reminded of Siobhan’s trust to help children read. I’ve said this before, but it’s worth repeating; send some money to Polly Nolan at the trust. Please!

David Fickling, Polly Nolan, Geoff Morgan, Rachel Billington and Tony Bradman

The venue was very elegant, and the drinks and nibbles were wonderful. As you know, or have long suspected, the witch is next to useless at mingling and stuff, but it went surprisingly well. I talked to people I know and was also introduced to new and interesting book people. Also at last got to talk to Siobhan’s husband Geoff in person.

I arrived too early, which is unacceptable even to a Swede, and a hasty manouvre to the ladies room brought me face to face with Fiona Dunbar, and I have insulted her in some pink way, but we will work on this. I hasten to add that Fiona was as friendly as always. Lee Weatherly was there, too. Not in the ladies, though. Anthony McGowan even recognised me, and Meg Rosoff made a late appearance after traipsing round Mayfair for a bit.

To prevent this looking like a shopping list, I will refrain from mentioning everyone else. Some of the conversations will no doubt be useful here later on. My head is buzzing with ideas and gossip, but with a memory like a grapefruit (or should that be goldfish?) you can never be certain it won’t get forgotten.

You can always hope.

The insecurities take hold again. I’ve worried about my comments. Then I carelessly went on about writing and bilingualism. What on earth am I doing here, writing in English? At university we had access to a book called something like “10,000 English words for ten years of English”. I’d like to know how far I’ve got on that list. I should probably do what Anne Shirley does in the new Green Gables prequel, and learn five new words every week.

But people do write in their non-native language, without too many ill effects. At this point in my thoughts I always mutter Joseph Conrad, to myself. But it was ages since I read Conrad, and I can’t say I know how good his English is (was?). When E, daughter of School Friend came to stay, she suddenly switched to writing in English. Not faultlessly, but it’s admirable anyway. School Friend reads this blog, but complains there are too many words she doesn’t know. SF, wave if you’re here today!

And then there’s Marika Cobbold. Swedish author writing in English, and doing it so well that I go an interesting shade of green whenever I think of her. I went to get her four novels out from my bookshelves this morning, when I discovered it was five. We’re about the same age and come from almost the same part of Sweden. That’s where the similarities dry up. When Marika’s books appear in Swedish, her name has magically become hyphenated with a -Hjörne tagged on. To a Swede this is pretty much the same as hyphenating yourself Murdoch or Hearst or something. Big newspaper.

I have an uncle (there will be a point to this soon) who about ten years ago gave me a pile of old monthly (quality) magazines. I’m still reading my way through that pile, and recently I got to a brief piece on Marika and her first book, which puts the magazine back fifteen years. That’s where I was reminded of the family connections to Volvo as well. On the other hand, none of that makes Marika write good books. It’s something she does herself. In English.

The first four books all have something Swedish in them; a character, a connection of some sort. I used to think I liked that. Then came the fifth book, with no Swedish at all, and I thought it was a much better book. Though that could be pure chance. Marika’s books are well worth a look, as long as you don’t compare us too unfavourably.

I’ll hunt out a thesaurus.

It would have been impossible to foresee this. The blogging, I mean, and for it to be about books.

As a teenager I couldn’t analyse a book to save my life. I’d still not like to depend on the analysing too much, for longevity. I read voraciously, to the extent that I’d stand in the corridor outside the next classroom reading while waiting to go in. In those days it wasn’t even a ruse to cover up friendlessness with a book. I just felt that I mustn’t waste any time.

But once inside the classroom, if it was literature, I’d had it. My Swedish teacher for the last two years at school despaired. She really liked me (!), and wanted me to do well. I did well in Language, and wrote essays which she loved and was forever embarrassingly reading out to the class. (I wish they wouldn’t do that.)

Mother-of-Witch, who also taught at the school, reported being cornered by my teacher, who enthusiastically compared me to the great old poet Anna Maria Lenngren (I recommend Wikipedia). Well, it’s nice when someone can see something good somewhere. Still don’t know quite what she meant.

And it’s nice being appreciated. This teacher also taught RS, and I had her husband for Philosophy. Just their luck to get the fledgling witch in what felt like the least inspiring subjects ever. Anyway, my grades for Language were as high as you get. Grades for Literature, sufficiently low to embarrass my teacher, who felt that was no way to begin life. So between them, Mr and Mrs S “adjusted” my results.

I left school with much better marks for Literature, having paid with a middling grade in Philosophy. It’s never been that important to me, but it was lovely to feel they cared. Once at university, a few more light bulbs eventually switched themselves on, but it still feels like a joke that I’m spending my time writing about books.

Somewhere I read that to be bilingual is not to be equally perfect in two languages; it’s to use them both in daily life. I think that’s a good definition. And on that basis, I’m inching towards the idea that I could, perhaps, count as a writer. I mean, I write daily. Bilingually, if necessary.

I’d like to think that Magister Sköldenborn is sitting up there somewhere, smiling down at her difficult pupil. Do they have the Internet in Heaven? According to Eoin Colfer’s The Wish List, both St Peter and his colleague in the hot place, use mobile phones. So maybe.

I was quite relieved. The teen reviewers at Simply Books met yesterday for their first real meeting, and my hopes on this issue had not been high. I wanted to know if they read the classics. Nearly all of them had. Perhaps only one or two, but that’s not bad going. As the group is almost exclusively female, the most commonly read titles were Little Women, A Little Princess, The Secret Garden and Black Beauty.

One of my recent ideas had been to put copies of the new Puffin classics in front of them, as well as proofs for new books, and see what happened. So, some of them went home with a classic, and we’ll see how it goes. One of the few boys very determinedly latched on to The Call Of The Wild from the word go. I hope he enjoys it. He said he’d seen the film, and I didn’t even know there was one.

Whatever the teen reviewers will say about the books they chose, I think these revamped classics look attractive. Some very good cover illustrations as well as introductions by some of today’s best children’s authors should make these popular again. I hope.