Turning Over a New Leaf

How to Talk to Your Succulent – written and illustrated by Zoe Persico
Tundra Books, 2025

In Zoe Persico’s incredibly inventive graphic novel, Adara’s mother has recently died. She and her father leave California to move in with her grandmother in Michigan. The potential subjects of graphic novels are unlimited, and How to Talk to Your Succulent is not the first one to deal with grief, or strained relationships of parents and children. It is, however, outstanding in its sensitivity, bold graphics, and experimentation with fantasy and reality as equal components of a young girl’s search for the truth. Persico quietly presents a scenario that defies reality, and then proceeds to immerse the reader in a world where it is utterly plausible.

If you are skeptical about human communication with plants, this book will demonstrate the irrelevance of that reservation. Adara is sad and uprooted, even though her grandmother is a pillar of flexible strength. Her father is trying, somewhat helplessly, to cope with his own desolation and anger, which he approaches by inadvertently discouraging his daughter from expressing her feelings. What could be worse than this agonizing moment in all their lives? As it turns out, Adara’s mother had quietly used a special power. Not only did she have the proverbial green thumb at growing plants, she could actually communicate with them: “Like, you know, actual conversations.”

Adara’s grandmother, who resembles a child’s ideal image of a non-judgmental old person as both youthful and wise, also keeps a garden and greenhouse. When Adara’s father realizes that she has taken to wearing her mother’s earrings, which resemble tiny plants, he takes her to visit a nursery where she can select an actual plant of her own. This gesture is the closest he can come to acknowledging her feelings of isolation. At the greenhouse she meets Perle, short for Perle von Nurnberg, a delicately beautiful succulent who, for a devastatingly brief second Adara believes to be speaking in her mother’s voice. Then comes the epiphany: “I can talk to plants just like Mom! I knew it! I knew it!”

There is nothing affected about this unusual series of circumstances. Readers are not asked to suspend disbelief, but to enter Adara’s emotional state without preconceptions. Broadening her narrow circle of relatives, she also meets a new best friend, Winnie, a frustrated artist whose own mother is demanding and unappreciative of her daughter’s talents. Still, she has a living mother and Adara does not. But other people, as Adara learns, have their own problems and also need to be protected in order to thrive. Perle, the plant who demonstrates Adara’s maternal inheritance, is threatened with extinction if Adara cannot learn that same lesson as it applies to her.

The artwork of How to Talk to Your Succulent is inseparable from the text. Persico uses earth colors, jewel tones, and gradations of light in a setting that combines the spaciousness of nature with the enclosed scale of a greenhouse. People’s emotions register with expressive brush strokes, as do the fantastic plants who interact with each other and intersect with humans. The author’s note reaffirms her commitment, both artistic and emotional, to connecting with the reader. She includes mixed media photographic images, a visual and textual demonstration of her method, and even a guide to the plants at the root of her story. Equally innovative for its graphics and its exploration of emotional vulnerability, this book will bloom with every re-reading.

Uri Shulevitz 1935-2025

Uri Shulevitz died on February 15. The breadth of his artistic vision was outstanding, demonstrated both in books which he wrote and illustrated, and in others that he illustrated in collaboration with another author. Many were deep explorations of Jewish themes, while others were more universal in scope. Chance was a masterpiece, integrating his entire life’s work in both words and pictures (I have also written about him here and here). The title indicates his conviction that his survival as a refugee from the Nazis, and, therefore, his entire career as an artist, was fundamentally a result of random events. The book earned many distinctions; unfortunately, a Sydney Taylor award was not among them.

I would like to call attention to one long out-of-print work by Mr. Shulevitz, his quirky, and even disturbing, Toddlecreek Post Office. (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1990). Like several of his other books, it adopts a tone from folklore. The small village of Toddlecreek has a small post office. It resembles an ordinary house, with tall windows, flower boxes, and an American flag indicating its purpose. The name of the postmaster is Vernon Stamps, reinforcing the idea that the story is something of a parable. (Some of his neighbors are named Mrs. Woolsox; Charlie Ax the logger; and the garrulous and nostalgic Dexter Shuffles.) Mr. Stamps is busy and efficient, but also compassionate, helping everyone in the community and even welcoming animals to his overcrowded enterprise.

Into this paradise, one unfortunate day, the postal inspector intrudes. Her presence is immediately disturbing, and the animals react before she even sets about her task. “Birds’ songs diminished…Bees’ buzzing ceased, or so it seemed. The small dogs stopped barking, and stared.” The inspector examines the post office’s records, as well as the evidence that unofficial, but humane, activities are also promoted there. There are books to read, and announcements for barn dances on the bulletin board. She announces that the post office will be closed. Vernon is stunned, but he senses that resistance to this decision is futile. He locks up and leaves.

If readers are not already saddened by this point, Shulevitz makes clear that the post office’s closure leaves a terrible gap in the life of the community. There is a sense of shock in the rumors about Silken, Vernon’s part wolf and part sled dog companion. The animal has disappeared. “Some say she went north to join the wolves. Others say she was killed by a hunter.”

What motivated Shulevitz to end the book on an unambiguous note of sadness? He was a great artist and humanist who had lived through the worst conditions imposed by tyranny. Toddlecreek has been ruined. “It is not on any map, it is bypassed by travelers and forgotten by time. And now, like any other small village, Toddlecreek has no post office.” Yet, unlike the residents of this unfortunate town, he did survive to produce an unforgettable body literature and artwork for both children and adults.

Fairy Architects

The Tallest Tree House – written and illustrated by Elly MacKay
Running Press Kids, 2019

Fairies usually live in tiny, beautiful, dwellings. Sometimes these are made of obvious materials: leaves, twigs, moss, and other natural elements. Often a child who loves fairies created them, or at least happens upon them and lovingly interacts with their inhabitants (for example this and this). In Elly MacKay’s The Tallest Tree House, there are two fairies, no humans. Both fairies have architectural aspirations as does this mouse). Their names are Mip and Pip, and they are somewhat competitive; at least Mip is. She actually challenges Pip to a contest: “Whoever makes the best tree house by sundown wins!” This impulsive idea doesn’t take into account the fact that Pip is currently reading a book about architecture.

Elly MacKay’s illustrations are theatrical; she describes her method in inspiring detail (I reviewed another of her books here). Looking at her cut-out figures, carefully placed in stage settings, I was reminded a bit of the Cottingley fairy episode, a well-intentioned fraud when two girls in early 20^th century Britain convinced a credulous public that they had photographed fairies. Of course, there is no fraud here; Mip and Pip are real and they create their own home. But the delicacy and care involved in bringing them to life seem related.

Even looking at the two friends, Pip seems more serious. In addition to his reading, he has a tall, pointed leaf for a head covering. Mip, in contrast, sports a comically oversized mushroom cap. Pip draws blueprints based on his planning. He carries a, presumably, well-stocked toolbox and uses a pulley. The sight of Mip’s obviously fragile tall tower worries him, because he cares about her more than he does about winning. Eventually, they work as a team, together completing “a winning piece of architecture.”

Several qualities set this book apart in children’s fairy literature. There is the tortoise and hare allusion, and the friendly warning that you need technology as well as patience to build a fairy house. The composition resembles a theater set, and even includes sound effects, such as a terrifying BOOM in huge font when Mip’s shoddy tower collapses. The book is not unique in excluding human observers, but it does feature an unusually independent fairy world. Next time you build a house for fairies, read Pip’s book and bring along some simple machines.

What Makes Us Happy

I Would Give You My Tail – written by Tanya Tagaq, illustrated by Qavavau Manumie
Tundra Books, 2025

This tender, subtle, book, about a boy awaiting the birth of a sibling, is set among the Indigenous people of Nunavut, northern Canada. It is both unique to their culture and universal in its expression of gratitude, both to people and the environment in which they live. The title refers to a conversation between two hares, echoed by other animals, and finally by the brother welcoming his new sister to the world they will share. The language seamlessly weaves together the language of the physical world and metaphor. The pictures, created in colored pencil, draw from Inuit folklore, as well as the specific qualities of the characters. Sharing is a concept central to the book, part of the overall vision of happiness passed from one generation to the next.

Assuming a child’s perspective in a book for children may seem natural, but it’s not so easily accomplished. Here, from the first page, readers will empathize with the boy, Kalluk’s, feelings of expectation and some anxiety, as he awaits a profound event in his life. Tanya Tagaq is straightforward in presenting the situation: “Kalluk’s mother is in labor and about to have a baby.” Even the repetition of seemingly redundant terms, “labor,” and “about to have a baby,” reflects the way that children incorporate reality. Qavavau Manumie’s illustration shows the pregnant mother touching her kneeling son in a gesture of reassurance, before he sets out to bring his grandmother to help.

Unhappiness is, realistically, part of Kalluk’s range of feelings at this moment. He asks two hares why they are happy, and learns how the qualities that they need to survive, speed and cleverness, are fulfilling ones. A brook is happy because of the fish who inhabit it. Mothers, animals or human, are happy with the offspring to their care. Explanations are kept to a minimum. Kalluk can sense the sincerity of all the responses.

A picture of Kalluk seated with his back against a giant mitten embodies his feelings of gratitude tinged with sadness. He clearly misses his mother, thinks of the warm mittens she has created for him, and sends her “all the love in his heart.” The way in which that message is convened does not need to be articulated.

Meeting his grandparents, Kalluk has reached the confirmation of all the previous lessons about gratitude and love. His grandmother, Anaanattiaq in their North Qikiqtaaluk dialect, is unapologetically depicted as old; she “stands up slowly, bones creaking and cane shaking.” Any diminished physical strength is no obstacle, as she states purposefully, “Let’s go greet the new one.” Walking home, the boy asks her about her source of happiness. When she answers “peace,” he requests an elaboration. This dialogue is different from those with the animals. She tells him in the most direct language that peace grows inside each person, as he or she makes a series of choices in life. The right choices will make you proud, and grant “lots of peace,” the kind that is meant to be shared.

When Kalluk and Anaanattiaq come upon “a conspiracy of ravens,” the squawking, lively birds are friendly towards them. Their requirement for happiness is “knowledge,” a slight variation of the other animals’ answers. Their grandmother, the ravens assure Kalluk, is full of knowledge. That knowledge is put to the most important use when she arrives at Kalluk’s home, where his mother has already given birth and his breastfeeding the baby whom he is now prepared to teach everything he has learned. Gratitude for food, water, family, and the ability to choose well, are the gifts he brings to her, as well along with a declaration of love. I Would Give You My Tail is like a perfect circle, enclosing the reader in the complete circle of Kalluk’s journey.

Show and Tell for the Shy

The Quiet One – written and illustrated by Yiting Lee
Eerdmans Books for Young Readers, 2025

There is a quietly reassuring message in Yiting Lee’s picture book about shyness. As carefully constructed as the robot that a young girl, Milly, constructs out of castoff materials, the story explains that not everyone needs to be outgoing, or brimming with obvious confidence. There is nothing wrong with those qualities, more obviously associated with success than being introverted. But not everyone fits that mold. Milly is one such child; she doesn’t need to radically change her personality. She needs to accept it, and to expect others to, as well.

Milly’s classroom is full of active children. They are kicking a soccer ball, running in the aisles, and giving a pretend karaoke experience. The behaviors of these lively kids is not universal. Readers will note that there are other students reading and drawing. However, even they are engaged in conversations with one another, while Milly is alone, actually seated behind a wooden partition. Milly lacks a fundamental sense of who she is: “She wasn’t sure if she didn’t have anything to say, or just didn’t know how to say it.”

Mechanical skills are one of Milly’s strengths, even though she may not perceive them that way. Her “secret place” is a workshop full of recyclables and junk, a vast collection which she imbues with potential use. I am fascinated by Lee’s use of scale in illustrating this haven. On the first two-page spread, it appears on the second page, dwarfed by the preceding picture of students who are excited about an upcoming show-and-tell activity. Hovering in her workshop, Milly and her stuff appear dollhouse-sized in comparison with the previous scene. Only on the following two pages does the reader see the full-sized nature of her vocation. Lee’s illustrations are rendered in watercolor and colored pencils, digitally edited. The limited range of colors, small detailed images, and word bubbles mixed with text, all create a unified quality to the book. Milly is an artist as well as a mechanic. In her workshop, she gestures to a cartoon-like sequence of drawings showing the transformation of each single item into a wondrous contraption. She is gifted, and her insecurity is clearly rooted only in social expectations.

Finding a broken cleaning robot, Milly envisions a new use for it. She creates a kind of Frankenstein’s monster, but without the torment of that creature. There are two wordless pages, and then he emerges as Arnold, speaking in pixels. Arnold becomes just the first production in an elaborate amusement park of trash converted to delightful rides. Arnold, it turns out, can do more than just say his own name. He counsels Milly, advising her not to be afraid of bringing him to show-and-tell. Is he a personification of Milly’s own psyche? Adults will probably infer that, and children likely will not. The important part is the role that he plays.

Explaining Arnold’s origins to a rapt audience, Milly slowly begins to change. “She was so caught up in the moment that she forgot all about her fear.” Rather than an abstract resolution not to be shy, Milly learns through doing that her supposed weakness is actually a strength. Children who are shy will love this book, as will any adult who was a shy child, knows a shy child, or is still shy in adulthood. On the other hand, kids who happily play soccer in the middle of a classroom will appreciate its vision of human difference.

Carrot Feast

Spotty – written by Margret Rey, illustrated by H.A. Rey
Harper & Brothers, 1945 (Reprinted by Houghton Mifflin, 2006, and in collection Curious George and Friends, Houghton Mifflin, 2003)

My World – written by Margaret Wise Brown, illustrated by Clement Hurd
Harper & Brothers, 1949 (Reprinted by HarperCollins, 2001)

The Runaway Bunny – written by Margaret Wise Brown, illustrated by Clement Hurd
Harper, 1942 (Reprinted by HarperCollins, 2017)

Sometimes our memory of a picture book, like anything else, may be flawed. I was recently reading Margaret Wise Brown and Clement Hurd’s My World, a much less known but equally classic work to Goodnight, Moon. The books share anthropomorphized rabbit characters, both with the same almost uncanny level of similarity and difference. The bunnies dress like humans, but Goodnight Moon, with its third-person narrator, avoids assigning them human speech. My World’s first-person narrator is a child/bunny, whose speech is simple enough to also avoid direct human-animal comparisons.

I was sure that the bunny family in My World enjoyed a meal which was a lavish display of exclusively carrots, but, when I arrived at the scene, I found that the children, parents, and grandchildren, had a greater variety of foods. They are pescatarians; the grandfather, or father, is carving a fish with traditional male expertise. I would guess that the couple at the carving end of the table are grandparents, judging by the style of the female rabbits’ dresses. One young bunny is seated on her father’s lap, but that may also be the grandfather’s lap, reversing the generations. The table includes a bowl full of carrots, but, in addition to the fish, there are also a green vegetable, and a red spherical food that are probably tomatoes. On the wall is displayed a scene from The Runaway Bunny, by the same author and illustrator. It’s the fishing scene, but the book famously ends with the abrupt but reassuring phrase from the mother bunny to her child, “Have a carrot,” followed by the two of them eating together in their burrow. You can decide if the mother bunny is overbearing or protective.

Spotty turns out to be the book with the all-carrot feast. The story is much more dated than Goodnight Moon, The Runaway Bunny, or My World. Instead of poetic cadences, there is a narrative meant to instruct children about racism, or other types of prejudice. Spotty is an admirable book in this regard, nothing to sneer at, especially given when it was written. Spotty is a brown-spotted bunny in a family where all the other children have white fur. The parents, pathetically, fail to take responsibility for their prejudice against him. To be fair, perhaps they are only experiencing legitimate fears about how society will treat him. They insist on blaming the grandfather, who allegedly has to be prevented from seeing his adorable grandchild.

This part of the story is so disturbing; I was hoping that, at the end, Grandpa would show up and tell them to take responsibility for their own deeply flawed parenting, but it doesn’t happen. (Another horrific detail is that Spotty tries to use a chemical spot remover to reverse the stain of his identity. When it doesn’t work, he runs away, after writing a heartbreaking letter to his obtuse parents.)

Spotty meets a little white bunny who has the same problem, reversed, in his own equally racist brood. (“That’s Whitie. She is…well, she is not quite like we are.”) Again, I have only the greatest respect for the Reys. While the writing in this book may not be Margret’s best, their shared goal in shedding light on racism, in a format that would appeal to children and help them to understand its irrational nature, is evidence of their decency. The pictures, as usual for H.A. Rey are wonderful. The meal is as unambiguous as the book’s message. No, bunnies don’t only eat carrots. But in this two-page spread, they do. Like the proverbial peaceable kingdom scenes, white and spotted bunnies sit arm in arm, managing to eat at the same time. There are three huge pyramids of carrots in a row across the table. The young offspring taught their parents some truths and the Reys, for all the flaws in the text, related to the childhood sense of being misunderstood.

Parent-Child Conversations

Fantastic Lou: Little Comics from Real Life – written and illustrated by Qin Leng
Tundra Books, 2025

All good children’s books are also good books for adults, but some seem specifically designed for both audiences. Qin Leng’s graphic chapter book, picture book, or collection of “little comics,” is definitely in the latter category. The cover, with a brightly smiling child radiating assertiveness, alludes to some of the mid-twentieth century comic classics. The wry interpretation of parenting issues also brings to mind the work of Liana Finck. Yet Fantastic Lou is also fantastic for children, reflecting their thoughts and feelings about everyday situations and important relationships.

The interminable experience of playing a board game is, at the same time, a way to have some quiet and meaningful interaction with a Lou, her child. The existential unfairness, mixed with boredom, might even be irritating to adults. “You fell in a hole. That means you gotta go back to square one.” An adult might feel bereft at that news, but a child’s understandable rage is difficult to dismiss. Leng captures the whole range of responses in her lively and delicate pictures, drawn in ink and digitally colored.

Collecting may have different meanings for children and adults. Leng focuses on how a child finds meaning in an object that seems useless to his parents. Forget well-intentioned recycling. Lou extracts a series of items, explaining the process with clear simplicity. Language also reflects the difference between Lou and Maman: “I see something, Maman. I can use this.” What further justification is needed for pulling things out of the trash? The reader is left to imagine the infinite uses implied in Lou’s artistic vision.

Lou’s image of his future self is as clear as his prospective plans for thrown-away collectible. In “When I Am Bigger,” he divides his life so far into two stags, and projects a third one based on growing size and increased power. After all, that is how adults appear to children. The adjacent chapter, “Montréal Trip,” takes that abstract idea and offers a concrete example of his special status as a child. The prospect of boarding the plane is exciting enough, but, in fact, his small and vulnerable size is granted equal status to the most privileged travelers: “Priority boarding for VIP members and passengers traveling with young children…”

Children are VIPs in Leng’s work. Sequences of constant motion, flights of imagination, and attempts to make sense of adult decisions, add up to childhood itself.

Stitching a Home

Thread by Thread– written by Alice Brière-Haquet, illustrated by Michela Eccli, translated from the French by Sarah Ardizzone
Eerdmans Books for Young Readers, 2025

“Knit one, purl one,” this book begins. Everyone who knits knows the phrase. Sometimes you drop a stitch, which is frustrating. Other things can go wrong. You may run out of the color yarn that you need, thinking that you had enough. In Thread by Thread, Alice Brière-Haquet and Michela Eccli have created several projects. The picture book is an homage to artisans, an ode to needlework, and a compassionate look at the need for everyone to find a home.

To call the illustrations inventive is an understatement. Delicate drawings of a mouse family intersect with photographs of yarn and knit items. The central item is a home, a red rectangle suspended from a knitting needle. Four square windows enclose two mice each, a flower, and a blank space. The demands on readers’ attention seem calm in this minimalist setting, but the book progresses to a warning, ending in reassurance.

As any knitter knows, “sometimes things can begin to unravel.” The mice have to hastily descend the stairs, which are a loose thread arranged in a zigzag. Frightening creatures emerge, including a dragon with orange fire emerging from his mouth. Brière-Haquet begins to describe the underlying resistance of this family: “We leave without making a fuss, but we dream of staying put.” The phrase could be a summary of some refugees’ experience.

While the dragon seemed menacing, other creatures are helpful. The rhino helping to hold thread called to mind Albrecht Dürer’s famous animal, which he had never actually seen, but whose combination of fantasy and accuracy amazed viewers. A turtle slowly rolls a ball of green yarn, and tiny crabs support a knitting needle. Again, the author introduces a quietly dissident note, admitting that the wool and silk are “spools of worry.”

Eventually, the mice create a new home. One window is still empty. The mice are proud and relieved. A seesaw works by balancing a group of small animals with a large one. Without a didactic trace, author and illustrator have presented several messages within one structure. This house holds anxiety, a cooperative spirit hope, and accomplishment. Thread by Thread is one of the most profound and beautiful picture books I have recently read. The elements of text and picture are interwoven in a way that will never unravel.

80th Anniversary of Liberation of Auschwitz

Today, the New York Times published an important opinion piece by Ruth Franklin about Anne Frank. The singular tragedy referred to in her title is both her death, and the erasure of her Jewish identity in popular culture. Francine Prose’s book, Anne Frank: The Book, the Life, the Afterlife (2009) and Dara Horn’s chapter on Frank, “Everyone’s (Second) Favorite Dead Jew,” in her essay collection People Love Dead Jews: Report from a Haunted Present (2021) are both illuminating on the same subject. Adults sharing books about Anne Frank, and others on related people and themes, might wish to read Franklin’s piece, as well as the books mentioned above, as an appropriate and realistic memorial and a step towards some understanding of the Shoah. I have written about this topic before, and here, in recognition of International Holocaust Remembrance Day and the 80^th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, are some other relevant reviews and an interview:

Never Again Will I Visit Auschwitz: A Graphic Family Memoir of Trauma & Inheritance

The Librarian of Auschwitz: The Graphic Novel

A Delayed Life: The True Story of the Librarian of Auschwitz

The Boy Who Drew Auschwitz: A Powerful True Story of Hope and Survival

Behind the Bookcase: Miep Gies, Anne Frank, and the Hiding Place

Impossible Escape: A True Story of Survival and Heroism in Nazi Europe

Interview with Steve Sheinkin, author of Impossible Escape

When I Grow Up: The Lost Autobiographies of Six Yiddish Teenagers

Tove Jansson and the Gold Spine

Wild Guests (Moomin) – written and illustrated by Riina and Sami Kaarla, based on characters created by Tove Jansson
Golden Books, 2025

Golden Books have become a big tent, in both the range of their subjects and artistic quality. When I learned that a Little Golden Book based on Tove Jansson’s beloved Moomin characters would be released, I was worried. Recent releases, particularly those on celebrities of more interest to parents than children, have pictures of dubious quality. On the other hand, some of them are quite good, with substantial information appropriately presented and attractive artwork. (for example, biographies of Queen Elizabeth II, Audrey Hepburn and Ruth Bader Ginsburg) As it turns out, the price of joining the distinguished club of Golden Book classic authors and illustrators was not to compromise the style of Tove Jansson, the creator of the Moomins.

Although the pictures are not her original ones, Riina and Sami Kaarla have produced their own interpretation, which is respectful of Jansson’s inimitable style.

There are many characters in the Moomin universe. In Wild Guests, the title refers to some unexpected visitors, who are the mother and siblings of Mymble, who is herself a guest in the Moomin family home. When they arrive, Moomintroll and Moominpapa are filled with excitement, while Moominmama somewhat unrealistically expects a docile crew who will happily consume strawberry juice and rhubarb pie. Instead, the Mymbles go wild. They treat the lovely, Victorian furnished home much as the Cat in the Hat did to Sally and her brother’s parent-free zone. While their destruction is innocent in its intention, they succeed in wrecking Snorkmaiden’s dressing table, defacing Moominpapa’s globe, and converting the kitchen into their playground.

There is a definite mid-twentieth century look to the pictures. The colors range from pastel to jewel tones, and the graphics recall paper cut-outs superimposed on a background of drawing. The wild guests are mischievous, but unmotivated by any conscious plan. (“I am Little My, and I bite because I like it.”) Their adult-like facial expressions may seem to cast some doubt on that, yet the Moomin’s home remains preserved from any serious damage. In fact, there is even helpful Elves and the Shoemaker results: a tower of carefully stacked jars and crockery, and a kettle boiling for breakfast.

It would be wonderful to use this lovely book as a gateway to Tove Jansson’s work. However, it stands all on its own as an immersion into Moominland.

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