In this collection of fairy tales, Lucy Cousins has identified tales where eating is either enabled or denied depending on the worthiness of the hunger. Little Red Riding Hood, The Three Billy Goats Gruff, The Enormous Turnip, Henny Penny, Goldilocks and the Three Bears, The Little Red Hen, The Three Little Pigs, and The Musicians of Bremen are all covered. With her characteristic style and upbeat humor, Cousins retells each and every tale in as few words as possible, never leaving out any pertinent details. The result is a gorgeous collection big enough to be seen during storytime, but not so unwieldy that its readers will need any new arm muscles.
Betsy Bird is currently the Collection Development Manager of the Evanston Public Library system and a former Materials Specialist for New York Public Library. She has served on Newbery, written for Horn Book, and has done other lovely little things that she'd love to tell you about but that she's sure you'd find more interesting to hear of in person. Her opinions are her own and do not reflect those of EPL, SLJ, or any of the other acronyms you might be able to name. Follow her on Twitter: @fuseeight.
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Speaking Turkish, my mother tongue, used to be as simple as breathing. It churned and fermented, nourished by live culture, and had a fluidity I took for granted. Idioms and expressions stuck on and dropped off of me like pollens. Phrases were gooey and malleable in my hands. Istanbul is a melting-pot where localities from across Turkey and beyond meet. So how I spoke, my mannerisms and intonations, stood out and were indicative of a certain circle and a certain class. Nonetheless I felt deeply situated, rooted in where I lived, the people I interacted with.
English permeated into the depths of my consciousness, seeping into the texture of my intimate thoughts and inner monologues. I even started dreaming in a hybrid vocabulary, as reported to me by those who have witnessed my quite verbose manner of sleep. New neurological pathways branched out stemming from the seeds of both languages, and at times forests of English dominated saplings of Turkish. Learning highly theoretical concepts in university in its lingo, it became the primary form in which many topics had a tangible and coherent meaning. Sharing with those back home newly acquired thoughts and knowledge on various subjects proved to be a frustrating task, as I noticed that I had not thought of such topics in Turkish yet. I was increasingly inhabiting an anglophone world, and becoming inhabited by an English discourse.
Sometimes I feel more competent in one language than the other. Other times both will seem half- formed, my English patchy and my Turkish blunt-edged. I then wonder if I have any linguistic abilities at all, when my command and delivery appear so static and brittle instead of flexible and bouncy. When language feels more like a barrier rather than a bridge, I reminisce on evenings of my childhood when my grandmother told me folktales from her own days of juvenility. Her oral performance was unfaltering as she channeled deities of the art of storytelling. The confidence with which she dramatised them inspires me as I am reminded that articulation can be such a peculiar thing.
They were often surreal and even non-sensical narratives. But their internal logic was warranted through the act of diligent repetition. Sometimes a word would roll in that had no meaning outside the magical dimensions of the story realm. I am unsure if this vocabulary was of her own invention, or if they had been of the vernacular of countryfolk. These stories were playful and unexpected, but also dependable, always the same beads of words following one another. She spoke them like prayers, never missing a beat. Now, tired by old age, she recites them only if pressed, and it is apparent how much of an effort it is to conjure the words.
Based in Edinburgh and Istanbul, Selin Genc is an art history student entering the final year of her BA in the University of Edinburgh. She also has her own art practice, in which she employs multimedia techniques informed by a feminist surrealist trajectory. Selin aspires to continue her studies in the area of Social Anthropology. Inspired by the meeting point of the magical and the mundane, the domestic and the esoteric, she is drawn by the alternative histories of ordinary things. Her online portfolio can be found here: -art.wixsite.com/portfolio. She also runs a history of art blog on instagram @ladyhamiltonasbacchante
Language is our primary means of communication. By speaking and writing, listening and reading, by using our tongues and our bodies, we are able to communicate our desires, fears, opinions and hopes. We use language to express our views of the world around us. Language has the power to transcend barriers and cross borders; but it also has the power to reinforce those demarcations. Language offers a form of resistance against oppression, yet it can also be used to oppress. Language has the power to harm or to heal.
Our next port of call was Bari in Puglia in the South of Italy. It is a beautiful coastal town, but I wanted to see something unique in this part of the world. I went to visit the fairy-tale village of Alberobello Trulli where the buildings are round with cone-shaped roofs.
Alberobello Trulli dates back to the 14th century and there are over 1400 cone-shaped buildings. They are so unique and you will not find these in any other part of Italy and they are a UNESCO World Heritage Site.
It is like you have stepped back in time and you are walking around a fairy-tale! All the buildings are white with tiled roofs. Some of the roofs have white symbols written on them, which are meant to bring good luck.
The story is, as many have noted, extremely strange and also, to some degree, unpleasant. The degree of unpleasantness is heightened or lessened depending on how sympathetic you are to the plight of the children named Blue-Eyes and Turkey. For some of you there will be only a slight prick of unpleasantness.
Now the mother and Blue-Eyes and the Turkey and the baby all lived in a lonely cottage on the edge of the forest. The forest was so near that the garden at the back seemed a part of it, and the tall fir-trees were so close that their big black arms stretched over the little thatched roof, and when the moon shone upon them their tangled shadows were all over the white-washed walls.
They had left the village and walked some way, and then, just before they reached the bridge, they noticed, resting against a pile of stones by the wayside, a strange dark figure. At first they thought it was some ne asleep, then they thought it was a poor woman ill and hungry, and then they saw that it was a strange wild-looking girl, who seemed very unhappy, and they felt sure that something was the matter. So they went and looked at her, and thought they would ask her if they could do anything to help her, for they were kind children and sorry indeed for any one in distress.
The girl seemed to be tall, and was about fifteen years old. She was dressed in very ragged clothes. Bound her shoulders there was an old brown shawl, which was torn at the corner that hung down the middle of her back She wore no bonnet, and an old yellow handkerchief which she had tied round her head had fallen backwards and was all huddled up round her neck. Her hair was coal black and hung down uncombed and unfastened, just anyhow. It was not very long, but it was very shiny, and it seemed to match her bright black eyes and dark freckled skin. On her feet were coarse gray stockings and thick shabby boots, which she had evidently forgotten to lace up. She had something hidden away under her shawl, but the children did not know what it was. At first they thought it was a baby, but when, on seeing them coming towards her, she carefully put it under her and sat upon it, they thought they must be mistaken. She sat watching the children approach, and did not move or stir till they were within a yard of her; then she wiped her eyes just as if she had been crying bitterly, and looked up.
But the strange thing about the peardrum was not the music it made, or the strings, or the handle, but a little square box attached to one side. The box had a little flat lid that appeared to open by a spring. That was all the children could make out at first. They were most anxious to see inside the box, or to know what it contained, but they thought it might look curious to say so.
And this the children thought a really remarkable statement, for they had not supposed that rich people dressed in old clothes, or went about without bonnets. She might at least have done her hair, they thought; but they did not like to say so.
But when they went to bed they sobbed bitterly, for they remembered the little man and woman, and longed more than ever to see them; but how could they bear to let their own mother go away, and a new one take her place?
Then the mother became really angry at last, and sent them off to bed, but instead of crying and being sorry at her anger they laughed for joy, and when they were in bed they sat up and sang merry songs at the top of their voices.
To their surprise they found the village girl sitting by the heap of stones, just as if it were her natural home. They ran fast when they saw her, and they noticed that the box containing the little man and woman was open, but she closed it quickly when she saw them, and they heard the clicking of the spring that kept it fast. 152ee80cbc
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