Not a Hutch or Burrow

Welcome to the Rabbit Residence: A Seek-and-Find Story – written and illustrated by Haluka Nohana
Chronicle Books, 2026

Following her earlier book about animals having fun while living in detailed habitats, author and artist Haluka Nohana has now invited readers to a rabbit residence full of activity. Even early in the morning, there’s a lot going on, even if not everyone is awake. Each room is a complete picture in itself, but the sum total of the cutaway house is a collective delight. The endpapers introduce the rabbits residing in the house. There are bakers, a wizard, a painter, a dinosaur keeper, a band, and many other essential professions. There are quintuplets, not so unusual for rabbits, a clockmaker for an old-fashioned touch, and a sleepy rabbit holding a blanket. He must be too young to have a job.  There is a four-page fold-out spread with text and a full view of the house, and subsequent pictures describe the action, and the text suggests indirectly that reader might want to look for a particular rabbit pastime. “Composer Rabbit plays the piano. – plink, plonk.” Some of the onomatopoeia seems as if it might be taken directly from the original text in Japanese, which adds an intriguing note: “Meanwhile, Painter Rabbit is painting, peta, peta.” The sounds connected to rabbit tailoring are “choki, choki.”

It’s easy to make rabbits appear cute, but these are quite distinctive, even within that category.  They are rounded and fluffy, a bit similar to Moomins. Lots of accessories, as well as brushstrokes denoting movement, add to their strangely realistic appeal. A rabbit exercising seems to have fallen and is seeing stars.  A dinosaur with a long neck, maybe an apatosaurus, leans down into the room below to offer a plant to a clockmaker. There is some ambiguity in these scenes, including magic involving a genie rabbit, whose swirling body may or may not be related to the waft of fragrant steam emanating from the kitchen. A mildly dissonant picture shows an almost empty house, framed by the question, “Wait! Nobunny’s home! Where did all the rabbit residents go?” The rooms appear different without all the busy rabbits.  Books are strewn about the library.  A lone telescope has no astronomer, and the magician’s studio shows an empty hat and a cauldron at mid-stir. It turns out that this swanky building has a rooftop open for a party, with all the familiar tenants as well as the light of shooting stars.

Into the Woods

Camp Monster – written by Kate Messner, illustrated by Falynn Koch
Bloomsbury Children’s Books, 2026

Too many people, not enough yetis. At least that seems to be the problem when Tasha’s parents decide to re-launch the summer camp that had served their species.  Only by welcoming a more diverse group of monsters will they have a chance of success.  Tasha describes this dilemma in a letter to her Gramp Abominable. She is consumed with excitement about sharing the experience of his own youth, even with her mother’s ominous warning about humans lurking in the woods, ready to spoil their fun. Kate Messner and Falynn Koch’s graphic novel about a camp populated by yetis, goblins, vampires, and griffins describes everyone enjoying a harmonious time together.  Not really.

The prominently displayed Code of Conduct for arriving campers lists some familiar dos and don’ts, along with other prohibitions, such as “No turning your fellow campers into frogs or anything,” and the seemingly aspirational, “We treat one another with respect at Camp Monster.”  The swim instructor is a mermaid, which certainly sounds more promising than Ms. Sphinx, the cafeteria manager.  Imagine having to answer a riddle, with dangerous consequences, before you can eat. 

Interspersed with comic strip and word bubble pages are profiles of campers and letters home.  The expectation that everyone would get along turns out to be unrealistic, what with goblins creating a robotic monster out of spare parts, and Lupo undergoing weird metamorphoses.  Isabelle, an ogre with an artistic soul, has a countercultural preference for the feminine term, “ogress,” which “sounds much more elegant.”  She hates sleeping in a rustic cabin, but is convinced that the lead role in the camp musical will be awarded to her.

There are some restrictions on projects in Maker Space: no magic allowed. But the camp librarian, Manny, has a well-stocked literary treasure house of classics such as If You Give a Monster a Cookie, One Ogre, Two Ogre, Red Ogre, Blue Ogre, and The Very Hungry Cyclops, with remarkably familiar cover art.  When swimming lessons seem unfairly biased against the more aquatically challenged monsters, the instructor decides to accommodate everyone, defining success according to effort. 

There is a point at the center of all the fun.  Humans, or least evidence that suggests their presence in the woods, become a frightening possibility.  No one is sure, but where there are horse’s hoof prints and candy wrappers, can humans be far behind?  When the terrified campers decide to build a wall, and force the alleged humans to pay for its construction, Tasha the warm-hearted yeti points out that walls are “ineffective.” Some monsters have more common sense than others.  There are some surprises in the plot, and humor for both young readers and adults.  Summer camp can be a time for relaxation and growth, as well as fear mongering and terror.  At the end of the first session, there are some loose ends, but also campers who are eager to return.

Sort of Good Very Bad Day

Just Another Perfect Day – written by Jillian Harris and Justin Pasutto, illustrated by Morgan Goble
Tundra Books, 2025

The family in Just Another Perfect Day, by Jillian Harris and Justin Pasutto, illustrated by Morgan Goble, is appealing in its imperfection. No one in the book seems quite as frustrated or depressed as Alexander in Judith Viorst and Ray Cruz’s classic, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day (1972), although one child, Leo, does actually spit out a sandwich when it disappoints him. The sarcasm of the title is also refreshing. Basically, this not atypical family has some typical problems, which push everyone to the breaking point, but not over it. The text rhymes, the pictures are bright and colorful, and the message is reassuring without being preachy.

The family’s home is comfortable, if not generic. It is set on spacious grounds and appears welcoming.  But problems begin to crop up as soon as the reader enters the interior space. Annie and Leo have overslept and are not nearly ready for school. Any parent knows the chain reaction that will cause. Mom wakes up, looking at her phone with surprise; three different clocks have malfunctioned, and one is analog. Dad, who hasn’t shaved yet, tries to walk two difficult dogs, holding things up further.  Multitasking won’t work, because everyone is too far behind to catch up.

Once the kids are at school, Mom tries to salvage the day at work in a particularly evocative scene. In a cinematic sequence of images, she is seen “checking off lists and meeting each goal,” a phrase filled with irony. Her computer, which is covered with sticky note reminders, isn’t actually working. Her coffee has spilled, and the bagel with one bite out of it shows that she doesn’t even have time to eat properly.  Even a lovely pink phone dial phone and matching vase of roses, evoking a simpler (maybe) era, can’t make up for the chaos.

This day has to turn around or the book will end in disaster. Everyone is exhausted, but their energy kicks in enough for an impromptu dance in the kitchen as they eagerly anticipate take-out food. When the delivery driver gets lost, the work together to cook up some pasta. Maybe the meatballs were left over in the fridge. If the cheery dance seemed fun, but improbable, the dinner is a believable conclusion.  There is still a sticky note on Mom’s hair, and paint on Annie’s face from her ill-fated art project, but everyone seems to have accepted the inevitability of days like this, which are “less than great.”  Baths, reading time, and family togetherness are the recipe, they conclude that “makes it all work.”  This cheery and unpretentious story is close enough to perfect.

Fight the Patriarchy

The Many Problems of Rochel-Leah – written by Jane Yolen, illustrated by Felishia Henditirto
Apples & Honey Press, 2024

In this truthful fable by Jane Yolen, who explains in the afterword that the story is based on one passed down in her family, Rochel-Leah does not fight the patriarchy. (I’ve reviewed other books by the inimitable and prolific Jane Yolen here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here.)  Instead, as girls and women have done through the ages, she subverts it.  Rochel-Leah is a Jewish girl growing up in Eastern Europe in the 1830s. She works hard, as her family struggles with poverty. Her father is a bottler, and her mother takes on traditional tasks in the home. But Rochel-Leah wants to read. (images) She will not give up her dream, even when confronted with resistance from family, community, and even the town rabbi. This man, who has dedicated himself to learning, cannot bring himself to permit extending that essential part of his culture to a girl. (I’ve written elsewhere about the gender roles in the Old Country when these shtetl dwellers move to the New World, and  I’ve reviewed books about Jewish children’s literature that take on the topic here and here and here.)

Rochel-Leah’s desire to read is all-encompassing. She longs to read recipes, folk tales, and poetry, but she also wants to read the word of God in the Torah. In Felishia Henditirto’s picture, Rochel-Leah is consumed by this passion, stated on a wave of fragrant steam coming from the cooking pot that defines a woman’s role.  In her home, literacy is respected and embraced. Her father reads aloud to the family, and her brothers have the privilege of reading books and newspapers. They learn Hebrew in their cheder, and also Yiddish and Russian.  Pictures of them sitting attentively in a primitive schoolroom are a stark contrast to Rochel-Leah’s exclusion from this setting.

Instead, she is angry, but also “determined.” In Yolen’s metaphor, Rochel-Leah’s “lips grew think, like a dash on a page,” and ‘her eyes turned gray, like the color of old ink.” So consumed is she with the desire to learn that her chin becomes as pointed as a yad, used for pointing to the letters of a Torah scroll.

The rejection of women is painful for a girl who needs support. Her mother actually weeps because she cannot help her. (image) Her father counters reality by denying that she has any cause for complaint, and her brothers laugh at her. (images). Most people would give up, but Rochel-Leah has a strength of unknown origin. She will confront the rabbi.

This devoted scholar is walking through the woods “reading poetry to the birds.” Is he so unworldly that this humble activity is important to him, or is his choice of audience one more example of his complete lack of awareness of women’s humanity? The rabbi informs her that rules cannot be broken. How much wisdom does that answer denote? Rochel-Leah’s inventive solution is to stand outside her brothers’ school and listen to the lessons taking place.  A picture of this stark division shows the letters of the Hebrew alphabet flowing through the wall, defying the restrictions against who can learn them. Then, she physically elevates herself on a ladder. She has forced the rabbi to take notice, and he concedes that rules cannot be broken, but they may be bent. He finally understands the depth of Rochel-Leah’s commitment, although he can only accept it as, to some extent, an exception. She is invited in to learn, but will have to hide in a closet if an inspector comes in. This closet is literal, as well as figurative.

Rochel-Leah grows up to become a teacher. Change eventually arrives, with many Jewish women now fully participating in the life of the mind that was denied them in the past. 

Keeping Things Moving Vertically

Waiters in Elevators – written by Dylan Shearsby, illustrated by Dylan Shearsby and Amanda Shearsby
Little Hare (Hardie Grant’s Children’s Publishing), 2026

Elevators in children’s books have an illustrious past and present. From Curious George’s employment in Curious George Takes a Job and Babar’s enjoyment of the big department store conveyance in The Story of Babar, to Ramona Quimby’s imaginary elevator in the episode that I chose for the name of my blog, (link to blog) this form of transportation holds meaning for young readers (two more examples are here and here). An upcoming release from Hardie Grant, (May, 2026) joins this list, not on the ground floor, but right in the middle.  Waiters in Elevators, by Dylan Shearsby and Amanda Shearsby, involves a trip to the Hotel Rigatoni, where the long-serving waiters of the title become exasperated by the lack of appreciation shown for their efforts.  Zany comedy, along with sensitivity to the workers who make things run, enliven this delightful book.

Hanz and Franz are the waiters. Their names, as well as their appearance, are an homage to slapstick movies of the past.  The Hotel Rigatoni residents are right out of classic comics, or the game of Clue, and each one poses an annoyingly urgent problem.  Baron Von Pretzel needs his coffee promptly, Lady Spongecake wants her demanding dog to be fed, and the eccentric Professor Tiramisu can only be awakened to the notes of Beethoven’s 5th Symphony. Even using an efficient form of transportation, Hanz and Franz can never keep up with the incessant requests. The elevator is depicted as a modern marvel, with gears and rapidly moving cars.

But one day, the workers decide they have had enough, and seek a brief moment of respite on the roof, where they are depicted with their backs to the reader, as they look out towards the skyline. Instead of wondering what has sent Hanz and Franz to the very top of the building, the people they serve become angry.  Although Hanz had written his letter of resignation, he had not submitted it. Something about these two loyal men motivates them to try one more time to make everyone happy, but this is impossible. They quit, forcing their boss, the concierge, to take over the job. In real life he would probably find non-unionized workers, who feel they have no choice, to do Hanz and Franz’s jobs. Maybe they would find one waiter to do the work of two for less pay. But in Waiters in Elevators, Professor Tiramisu and company finally get the message. Hanz and Franz receive a collective apology, as well as a raise.  “They were very happy to be waiters in elevators,” with gratitude finally part of the ride.

One Person, One Character, One Goal

Little Monk Writes Rain – written and illustrated by Hsu-Kung Liu, translated by Rachel Wāng Yῠng-Hsín
Eerdmans Books for Young Readers, 2026

This exceptionally beautiful and gently philosophical picture book is about a Buddhist monk who has difficulty learning written language, with the exception of one Chinese character. He is singularly focused on writing the character for “rain,” and this limited but powerful ability persists throughout all the onslaughts, as well as the peaceful times, of his life. The book opens vertically, like a writing tablet.  Delicate watercolor and ink drawings reflect traditional art, without mere imitation.  When the book begins, the character is a young boy. Of course, character has two meanings here, an individual human and a symbol for written expression. 

He first appears at the monastery in a tiny woven basket; as he grows, he is integrated into the community of prayer and manual labor, as well as reading and writing. For better or worse, he is not completely isolated from the outside world.  A mention of casual cruelty makes this clear, because “Little Monk is not able to learn to read. And sometimes, other people laugh at him.” Those people are shown as children peering through a doorway. One has a bird on his head, an allusion to innocence, or perhaps of something worse. That oddly positioned bird may point do a different and less excusable deficiency, lack of empathy.

Suddenly, “for some unknown reason,” it begins to rain incessantly. Joining an older monk indoors, the little monk learns to write the character for rain. After introduction of the character, whenever it appears in the book, it is simply left standing without any guide to pronunciation.  The reader may choose to read the character as “rain,” or to research how to pronounce it and attempt to do so. This seems a deliberate feature of the book, given that the nature of language, at least as people use it every day, is as framed by “some unknown reason” as the rain itself.

As in a fairy tale, the hero persists against adversity. Every day he performs his work tasks, but also writes the one character he has been able to master. Over the years, he grows up, becoming “Big Monk,” but his inner character remains unchanged. Then the environment suffers a reversal, and a drought threatens the world.  The monks take responsibility for leading others in prayers to end the drought. They are well-equipped and organized, “taking their Buddhist beads and prayer books to help folks appeal to the heavens.” There is no sense of superiority in their actions. Meanwhile, Big Monk also prepares, by gathering together his impressive collection of calligraphy, all consisting of the one character for rain..

A vertical two pace spread is a magnificent scene washed in red and gold, of a plaza where ordinary “folks” pray while important men and “splendid altars” dazzle. “Even the Emperor is here.” When the monks arrive, they also appear important to the reader, wearing their crown-like broad hats and bearing their sacred scrolls. But their clothes are “shabby.” In folklore, many times the high and mighty are brought low by their sense of self-importance. At first the monks are unable to respond, feeling faint and weakened by the intense heat. But, seeing the distinguished shifu, for all their knowledge, reduced to angry and petty squabbling, they gather to pray. Big Monk cannot read the prayers, but opens his basket of rain characters and is “flooded with memories.”

Now the monk has a biography. He remembers a conversation overheard long ago. He learned that he was an orphan who had been brought to the monastery. At the age of five, he began to learn writing. His teacher, originally a child, grew old, and the died. The cruelty mentioned earlier in the book intensifies in his memories, as he is “pelted with rocks.” All his thoughts of the past, and all his distinctive qualities, together form a response. He offers his sheets of writing to the heavens and the rain begins. An “ecstatic” crowd of people personifies the rain, elevated above the rain drops with joy.

Little Monk Writes Rain does not use the word “dyslexia.” An afterword, as thoughtful in tone as the rest of the book, explains that some people have difficulties learning to read. Hsu-Kung Liu presents thoughts and questions about the relationship between pictures, words, and the stories that they record. He reminds readers that sometimes “one word means everything.” Of course, those readers may be either children or adults. This remarkable book is a work of art, and a bridge to understanding life itself.

Anne Frank and Authenticity

When We Flew Away: A Novel of Anne Frank Before the Diary – by Alice Hoffman
Scholastic Press, 2024

When I first learned about When We Flew Away, I was slightly skeptical, even though Alice Hoffman is a very fine author.  There are so many attempts to simplify or universalize the experience of Anne Frank, as well as honest misunderstandings of her life and legacy.  Before reading this middle-grade and young adult novel, I recommend two adult books that do an excellent job explaining and contextualizing Anne Frank and her diary. These are Ruth Franklin’s The Many Lives of Anne Frank (2025), and Francine Prose’s Anne Frank: The Book, The Life, The Afterlife (2009). Cynthia Ozick wrote a powerful article in The New Yorker in 1997 on the same theme, called “Who Owns Anne Frank?”

As the above-mentioned authors have both clarified and deplored, Frank’s message has been distorted in order to convert her into a bland symbol of universal forgiveness. The history of the Holocaust, as well as her own understanding of Jewish culture, religion, and identity, were lost in the process. More accurately, they have been deliberately erased. Alice Hoffman does not attempt to document Frank’s experience in hiding. Instead, she imagines, based on the record and her own interpretations, what the young Anne was like before her family was forced into their desperate choice.  This novel is about a young girl’s family, her emotions, and her response to the development of violent antisemitism in the Netherlands, the country that was supposed to have been a refuge for her German Jewish family. (To correct misconceptions about the alleged heroism of most non-Jewish Dutch citizens, read Nina Siegel’s thorough account in the anthology The Diary Keepers: World War II in the Netherlands, as Written by the People Who Lived Through It.)

Anne’s close relationship with her father is central to the story, but Hoffman also offers a much more nuanced view of Anne’s mother than the limited perception of their tensions.  The diary does record conflict, but Hoffman includes the plausible view that Edith Frank had a deep love for her daughter, although her personality caused her to express this in a less direct way. Ruth Franklin corroborates this idea in her work. 

The move to the Secret Annex is preceded by increasing levels of oppression.  “Life became smaller.  People stopped talking about the future.” Without imitating Anne’s own future writings, Hoffman captures the sense of confinement, which would gradually worsen.  The metaphor of flight, which will never become literally possible, is woven throughout the narrative. Looking at a Jewish boy who has been tormented by children in the street, Anne perceives the truth about their present lives: “Anne looked at the boy and he stared back across the distance between them. They lived in a land without birds, a country in which there were no laws that would protect them, a place where it wasn’t possible to be a child anymore.”

When We Flew Away is understated in its ambitions, but it does succeed in restoring a measure of realism and humanity to Anne Frank in the form of a compelling and believable story.

Instructional Jam

How Not to Make a Jelly Sandwich – written and illustrated by Ross Burach
Scholastic Press, 2026

There are an endless number of projects that demand instructions for adult readers. For children, some of these may seem quite pointless. Ross Burach’s How Not to Make a Jelly Sandwich gets right to the point, providing clear guidelines for the preparation of a culinary favorite. There is not even any peanut butter here, just jelly, apparently grape or maybe strawberry. There is a determined little girl, and some animals to help.

Starting from the beginning, she draws plans on an architect’s planning board. Nothing will be taken for granted. There are only “five simple steps,” cutting out grownup nonsense about specialized qualities of the ingredients. She begins with a trip to the supermarket, where she purchases scuba diving equipment and bread, distributing the latter to some ducks in a pond. The series of detours in making a sandwich are a kind of parody of self-important instructional literature. For kids, they are just funny.

The next step is bathing a dog (other children’s authors have also handled the pet-bathing conundrum), followed by directing a medieval pageant. It may seem like a digression, but the dog’s tail will become a jam knife. Here is where spectacle becomes part of the sandwich preparation, involving placing bread and jelly on the tips of the knights’ lances. Since cultivating the right attitude is often considered essential, the girl uses positive reinforcement with hamsters, who will employ their unicycles to cut the sandwich in half. Seemingly useless activities often have an ultimate goal, especially to children.

The reward for all of these focused series of actions is a jelly-sandwich eating event, including everyone who has helped, or temporarily hindered, the sandwich construction. Returning to the title, with its “Not” inserted between “How” and “to,” according to the author information on the back cover, the author is having ironic fun with a typical school assignment. How much room for creativity is available when listing instructions on demand? Backmatter offers some more unorthodox suggestions for sandwich prep, and children will undoubtedly come up with more.

Subject to Change

Ruthie – written and illustrated by Esmé Shapiro
Tundra Books, 2026

It’s impossible to mistake a book by Esmé Shapiro with the work of any other artist (I’ve reviewed her work here and here and here). Her odd, rounded, comically proportioned figures, their quirky thoughts put into the perfect words, as well as the underlying premise of Shapiro’s universe, are all there. (Her pictures in this book are rendered in gouache, watercolor, colored pencils, and collage.) Life is strange, funny, poignant, and always suitable to be made into art.  In Ruthie, a haughty dog believes that he is a prince. Just look at this pet’s bedroom, with its pink-ribboned canopy and fancy vanity.  Royal pictures adorn the walls and a crown, perhaps paper, sits next to brush and hair ornaments. A picture book, left carelessly open, on the floor, features a castle and dragon. Someone must be in charge of picking up this mess, but it’s not the monarch himself.

Ruthie lives in a smallish castle, resembling a brick house. Through the window we can see Ruthie’s human queen, the same one who feeds and grooms him, taking care of his every need. Ruth imperiously identifies some of his favorite objects: bone, fish, and three-year old piece of cake.  This is the only tone he knows how to adopt when communicating his needs. 

There are some disadvantages to her living arrangement. The responsive and super-competent queen sometimes keeps Ruthie on a short leash. The dog-prince suspects that there may be experiences which he is missing, such as a parade given in her honor, but freedom is inconsistent with instantly available blueberry pancakes and a relaxing bath.

Preaching is not part of Shapiro’s vocabulary. When Ruthie breaks loose, he is initially thrilled with the possibilities, but soon he is covered with mud. Strangely, the animals he meets don’t recognize his authority. But explaining his predicament to a, naturally, wise owl, Ruthie finally has the means to return from his Oz-like journey, back to the safety of the person who loves him unconditionally. He even recognizes that, in his quest to get rid of the mud, he has  made “a new friend or two.”

Starring Cecilia

The Curious Life of Cecilia Payne – written by Laura Alary, illustrated by Yas Imamura
Eerdmans Books for Young Readers, 2026

Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin: her name has the ring of poetry.  Before she married Russian scientist Sergei Gaposchkin, she was Cecilia Payne, a brilliant and curious young woman born in the U.K., who later emigrated to the U.S. to pursue studies at Harvard.  In Laura Alary and Yas Imamura’s picture book biography (I previously reviewed an Imamura book here), Cecilia Payne’s intellectual gifts and incredible persistence pave the way to her unlikely success as an astrophysicist in an era when women confronted almost insurmountable obstacles.  The adjective of the title refers both to Payne’s inquiring mind, and to the way that her distinguished career evolved.

The book begins with a significant statement: “When she was eight years old, Cecilia Payne discovered she was a scientist.” Alary asserts that Cecilia knew this essential fact, not merely an aspiration, about herself.  Yet she begins at ground level, only later pursuing the stars. At first, Cecilia notices a bee orchid, a flower that, according to her mother, did not grow in England.  The scientific method begins to form in her mind, like the bee enclosed in this flower.  She continues to examine the flower, but also promises herself that she will not allow herself to become discouraged by resistance to her ideas.

The qualities that drew Cecilia to the study of nature contrast with the social expectations surrounding her.  When other children see “twinkling diamonds” in the heavens, she is compelled to determine the actual substance and origin of these beautiful visions.Fortunately, a teacher promotes Cecilia’s scientific literacy, but she encounters setbacks when her family moves to London, where, in a new school,  she is isolated by her singular love of knowledge. Imamura’s picture captures both this potentially destructive social deficit, as well as Cecilia’s healthy response. Seated at her desk, she is the only girl looking, not distracted, but intently focused. A group of girls observe her drawing natural objects, but their apparent disapproval cannot dissuade Cecilia from her purpose.

If childhood disdain is difficult, the adult version can be even worse. Arriving at Cambridge University, Payne is thrilled to be in the midst of possibilities.  Knowledge is not limited to what is immediately visible.  Against a background of male profiles, Imamura envisions a young woman who believes herself to be part of this world, but problems will emerge. Soon she be observing the skies with a telescope, but on the planet earth, men make the rules.  Forced to sit by herself in a lecture hall filled with arrogant male scholars, Payne’s determination is forged even further by adversity. Imamura’s quiet depiction of this scene is free of overt drama, but clearly sends a message about the reality that Payne will repeatedly confront.

Arriving at Harvard, Payne finds both the proverbial room of one’s own, and the support of other women scientists, but also, a thick layer of disdain beneath the hypocritical veneer of hypocrisy.  Imamura’s vision of this phenomenon is perfect. Attempting to explain to her male colleagues her revolutionary hypothesis about the true substance of stars, she is subjected to Harvard mansplaining. One distinguished perpetrator smokes his pipe and looks away, as if her ideas don’t even merit attention. Another stares into a book, while a third, gesturing with his hands for emphasis, informs her that she is wrong. In a later scene of understated triumph, Payne engages with her students, encouraging their questions and treating them with respect.

There are many excellent picture books about women in the sciences (for example, I have previously reviewed biographies of Emmy Noether, Lise Meitner, and Rosalind Franklin).  Brilliance and determination are not always enough to assure fairness.  The detailed backmatter of The Curious Life of Cecilia Payne  offers clarification about her life, times, and successful career, with Imamura’s beautiful illustrations complementing the information, as it does everywhere in this outstanding and inspiring book.