The Merry Spinster by [Daniel] Mallory Ortberg

Source of book: Borrowed from the library

Just a note: this book is by Daniel Mallory Ortberg, but is under the name of Mallory Ortberg. (See below for more about the author.) 

The Merry Spinster is a collection of modern takes on classic fairy tales and other stories. That is probably the easiest way to describe it. The stories aren’t straight up retellings, though, as they are often mashups of different tales. For example, “The Thankless Child” combines elements of Cinderella, King Lear, three Medieval prayers, and Psalm 139. Also, there are riffs on modern stories like The Velveteen Rabbit - and that one is particularly dark. In general, these are not “nice” stories, although the same could be said about the originals in their pre-Disney forms. 

Ortberg does some interesting things with the stories. While some are pretty dark, all of them have an underlying wit and sense of humor. They are also more feminist than the originals - the women and girls are hardly passive sorts, waiting for a prince. Ortberg also bends genders in many of the stories. Kings will be female, queens male. A youngest daughter will be referred to as “he.” In the context of the stories, this will flip stereotypes, so that a male daughter will be renowned for beauty, a female son for her bravery, and so on. It makes for a disconcerting experience in some ways, because our language itself is based on a gender binary and assumes particular gendered traits. 

In some of the stories, there is pointed social commentary. In others, the point seems to be to imagine different points of view, as in “Fear Not: An Incident Log,” which retells portions of the book of Genesis from the viewpoint of the Angel of the Lord, filling out an incident report for every interaction with humans. Divine miracles as bureaucratic incidents, so to speak. 

Ortberg writes well. The twists and turns are carefully plotted, and spring on the reader unexpectedly. The language is matched to the stories, so they are to a degree “in the style of” the originals. For obvious reasons (see below), Ortberg is thoroughly fluent in the Bible, as well as “christianese” of the Evangelical variety. He brings out sly references to verses that are fairly obscure, and nods in the direction of tropes within the Evangelical subculture. Some of these might be unnoticed by those who didn’t grow up in that subculture, but they hit home for those of us who did. 

Here are a few lines which stood out. 

In “The Daughter Cells,” an underwater mermaid kingdom is described. The daughters get to do whatever they want with their little patch of, well, not land exactly, but area, I guess. 

At any rate, these girls didn’t own their patches of land, but they had the use of them, which made for good practice. They might ornament their allotted land with flowers, they might grow crops, or they might stuff it with old sea glass and bits of shipwrecked kettles, as they saw fit. The only way to teach the value of something is to give someone the chance to waste it - or at least that was how the thinking went under that particular administration.

That last line in particular struck me as interesting. I think it is more broadly true about humanity. 

How about this one, from the Genesis story?

They live all alone in their own heads, and shudder reflexively at the prospect of God’s imminence. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen a man spend all his life praying for union with the divine, only to shrink back and scrabble to return to his own skin once he realizes that the presence of the divine is coming for him...

Finally, there is an exchange in “The Frog’s Princess” that is true and disconcerting for that reason. 

“Beauty does not belong exclusively to you,” the man told his daughters. “Beauty is a public good, and you are responsible for it.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” the youngest daughter asked. The sun burned hot on his forehead. 

“It means - in a sense - that according to a certain understanding you belong to everyone,” the man said.

“By that reasoning,” his daughter said, “I belong at least partly to myself. Certainly at least as much as I belong to anybody else.”

“Don’t be clever,” his father said. “Go and play outside, where people can see you.”

This leads into some pointed, though oblique, comments on sexual harassment of young women. The whole story, actually, is a satire on male sexual entitlement and the expectation that women, by virtue of existing, exist to please men. 

The book is a pretty quick read, but it packs a lot of interesting ideas into its small size. If you like remixes of classic stories, you will definitely enjoy it. If you find gender bending and swapping intriguing, you will also like it. It’s worth a read. 

***

Note on Daniel Mallory Ortberg:

I first discovered Ortberg when he took over the Dear Prudence column at Slate Magazine from Emily Yoffe. Back then, he was Mallory Ortberg, fresh off co-founding the much-lamented late website, The Toast. (At least the old stuff is still online. So there’s that.) For a while thereafter, I didn’t think much about it. 

Later, though, I made the connection: he is the child of Evangelical pastor and author, John Ortberg. In fact, back when I was part of organized religion and identified as Evangelical, our former pastor used to quote John Ortberg a lot. And actually, as far as Evangelical author sorts go, his stuff was...pretty good. I don’t agree with all of the theology, but it was kindhearted and humble stuff, not the macho posturing and dogmatic assertion of so many others. 

However, Ortberg’s church is officially non-affirming of LGBTQ people. 

When Mallory announced that she was transitioning to Daniel, I was rather curious as to what his family made of it. Apparently, they are accepting of Daniel. I really wonder now how John Ortberg squares all of this. Does he just accept the cognitive dissonance? Or is he, like I suspect many Evangelicals, trapped between affirming personal beliefs, and the reality that he would lose his ministry if he came out as affirming? It’s an interesting question. 

It is easy to see some autobiographical stuff in The Merry Spinster; not details, but emotions. It is particularly fascinating since Daniel didn’t come out as transgender until the book was finished. This background explains why Daniel is so fluent in the language and subculture of Evangelicalism, and why he knows his Bible rather well. I am curious to read his next book, which is a collection of essays on, among other things, religion and gender identity.  

***

Just for fun, I have read and reviewed one other book written by a transgender person:

All the Birds in the Sky by Charlie Jane Anders

The Girl Who Drank the Moon by Kelly Barnhill

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

There has been a trend over the last, say, 40 or so years, to turn tropes on their heads. One of these has been to repurpose - to redeem, so to speak - the Witch. No longer a byword for evil of the worst kind, a menace to children, in league with the devil, she is at minimum more complex and human. In many cases, she is the greatest force for good in a community.

There is a lot of truth to this transformation. An honest analysis of the history of witch burning - and let’s call it what it is: murder - reveals that “witches” generally fell into two categories. The one was the elderly woman with no relatives to defend or avenge her. She was viewed as a drain on the community resources. Rather than support her (say, through the poor laws), it was easier to imagine her malignant and murder her. Not a particularly savory human trait on display there.

The second sort of historical “witch” is even more intriguing. Throughout history, there have been women who refused to kowtow to the patriarchy, who served as the physicians of the community, healing with pharmaceutical herbs, providing contraceptives (and yes, abortifacients too - this was all women’s work for millennia), delivering babies, and so on. One can trace these sorts of women (very often called “wise women”) from the dawn of human history to modern times. The Florence Nightingale sorts who stood up to chauvinist doctors and provided far better care than they did. Although nursing is no longer a solely female profession, it is still the nurses - not the doctors - who do the hard work of medical care.

Sadly, the “wise women” always existed in uncomfortable tension with the patriarchal powers of society. So, from time to time, one would be murdered as a “witch.” That way, the balance of power could be maintained, and the healers would live in fear, and thus stay in their place. Several of these women are mentioned in Uppity Women of Medieval Times - success and popularity were dangerous to women. 

I start off with this, because The Girl Who Drank the Moon is one of those books in which a witch is a healer. (Although the best, for my money, is still Terry Pratchett’s Tiffany Aching series - they are a great crash course in ethics for kids.) This book is also quite political - in a good way - without being particularly didactic.

The setting is a rather dystopian society. The Protectorate is a city with a problem. There is a witch living in the forest, and she will destroy the city unless a baby is left for her in the woods each year - presumably for her to devour. This belief is fostered by superstitious stories passed from generation to generation. But it is also enforced by the powers that be: the all-male council of elders, and the all-female quasi-military force. (They are kind of a cross between nuns and ninjas…) So, every year, the youngest child in the city is brutally ripped from his or her parents, and left to die in the forest. Thus, the witch is appeased, and the city lives another year.

But this is not, of course, the reality. There actually IS a witch, but she is rather puzzled by the whole “abandoned baby in the forest” thing. She comes every year, takes the baby, and places it for adoption with a family on the other side of the mountains - communities for which she serves as healer and therapist. Sure, she probably should have inquired as to why they were abandoned, but the Protectorate was obscured in a fog, both literal, and magical (a fog of sorrow.)

This goes on for some time - 500 or so years - before things change. First, Xan (the witch), takes a shine to a particular baby, Luna, and accidentally feeds her moonlight instead of starlight, which “enmagicks” her. At the same time, Antain, a young man who is expected to eventually take his place as an elder, is traumatized by Luna’s abduction. Her mother refuses to peacefully surrender the child, instead going mad in the aftermath. She is locked in a tower, and Antain is haunted by the scene. He investigates, and is cut on his face by a flock of paper birds created by the mad woman. He eventually marries, and his child in turn is due to be sacrificed.

In the meantime, Luna has grown up raised by Xan, a primeval swamp monster named Glurg (who is a sensitive poet, and may be both one with creation and its creator - it’s a paradox to say the least), and a pocket sized dragon. Xan locks her magic inside her, lest she hurt someone or herself (which is a legitimate fear), until she turns 13. In that way, Luna’s discovery of her magic self is connected with puberty - and is just as awkward.

As the book proceeds, the mystery of the past unfolds. All of the characters - not just Luna - has some part of their memories locked away. Their sorrow, in particular, cannot be recalled. As the fog lifts - literally and figuratively - a past tragedy is remembered. And it becomes clear that the real power behind the Protectorate is a “sorrow eater,” the evil counterpart to the Witch, who lives on the pain of others.

There are some pretty heady political lessons here. How does oppression work? Why do people tolerate it? How is blind allegiance created? How are people prevented by fear and violence from thinking for themselves? And, of course, the necessity of the good people of the world to challenge not just the status quo, but the powers of hate.

There are some interesting things about this book that I think make it better than average. First, the author is pretty good about showing, rather than telling. The beliefs of the Protectorate are revealed through a series of “fairy tales” told to children. These open the book, and recur throughout at crucial junctures. Also in this vein, the author allows the full horror of the child sacrifice to be felt. Nothing graphic, but it is clear that the Elders believe that the child is eaten by wild animals - and that they perpetuate the sacrifices because they know it maintains them in power.

I also appreciated that the book is told from various points of view. And they are all sympathetic in some way. That includes the point of view of Sister Ignatia, the villain. Barnhill makes it clear that she too has her hidden pain, and came to be who she is because her own trauma.

That said, it is the trajectories of Sister Ignatia and the chief Elder that are by far the most chilling part of the story. Both of them are so wedded to their power that they cannot, even at the end when their powers have been stripped, repent. They end their days in confinement, cut off from nearly all human contact, their pride having sentenced them to their own private hells. They cannot even admit that they were wrong, which is one thing that the better inhabitants of the book are willing to do. I do not pretend to be an expert on the afterlife, but this kind of matches my own (tentatively held) belief: there are many who, given the choice of repenting and apologizing as a condition of eternal life in the presence of God, will instead choose annihilation rather than bend. (For many from my own time and country, they will choose to not exist over having to be equals with brown-skinned people - I’m looking at you, Phyllis Schlafly…) I say this, not because of theology, but because of psychology. (And yes, I think C. S. Lewis was highly perceptive about this.)

One final thing merits some praise for this book. The ending is set up perfectly for the good people of the story to exact justice. Or revenge, perhaps. But they don’t. It is enough to stop the bad people from hurting everyone else. Mercy and grace are extended to all. Even the chief Elder and Sister Ignatia. But they cannot accept that grace, and choose their own annihilation. At the end of the story, I was strongly reminded of the ending of Les Miserables. Javert too cannot accept grace, because he refuses to extend it. And, like so many of Victor Hugo’s heroes, the heroes of this book become so much more heroic because of the grace they extend.

I found this book fascinating. Those who know the Western fairy tale tradition will find all kinds of “Easter Eggs” within the story. Likewise for those who know their Bibles. Obviously, Fundies will clutch their pearls at the idea of the opening of the Gospel of John being repurposed as an explanation as to how the primordial Chaos (the “bog monster”) became the world and the creator and the poem and the poet and everything. But for those not so obsessed with doctrinal purity, this mythology will, like fairytales and myths and allegories and parables around the world and throughout history, be another way of thinking about truth - a poetic and figurative representation of some deeper truth about reality - and ourselves.

Overall, a better than average book, with memorable characters, a good story, and thoughtful explorations of deeper truths. 

***

Oh yeah, this is the Newbery Award winner for 2017.

***

I first read this poem in high school, and it has always stuck with me.

After the Battle by Victor Hugo

My father, that hero with the sweetest smile,
followed by a single hussar whom he loved above all others
for his great bravery and his great height,
was riding, the evening after a battle,
across the field covered with the dead on whom night was falling.
He thought he heard a weak noise  in the shadow.
It was a Spaniard from the routed army
who was bleeding, dragging himself by the road.
groaning, broken, ashen, and more than half dead,
and who said, "Drink! Drink, for pity's sake!"
My father, moved, handed to his faithful hussar
a canteen of rum that hung from his saddle,
and said, "Here, give the poor wounded man something to drink."
Suddenly, at the moment when the hussar bent
leaning over him, the man, a kind of Moor,
seized a pistol that he was still gripping,
and aimed at my father's forehead crying "Caramba!"
The bullet passed so near that his hat fell off
and his horse shied backwards.
"All the same give him something to drink," said my father.

 

Egg and Spoon by Gregory Maguire

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

I had never heard of Gregory Maguire before selecting this book, which I did based on its presence in a few lists of good modern books for children. (Written in 2014.) However, as no doubt any number of readers could have informed me, Maguire is best known for Wicked, the book the musical was based on. Probably, such knowledge would have made zero difference in whether I chose the book, as I am not much of a celebrity chaser. 

The book itself, however. How shall I describe it? Perhaps as a mashup of The Prince and the Pauper with Russian folklore such as the Firebird and Baba Yaga, the witch with the house on chicken legs? As a modern parable of the hardships imposed on the poorest by natural disasters? (In this case, the reference is obviously to climate change, and regardless of one’s opinion on that, Maguire is absolutely right that while the rich will probably be fine in any case, the poor always suffer most from any disaster.) As a reflection on privilege and selfishness? An excuse to embed literary and philosophical Easter Eggs for the adults? Or perhaps just as a highly imaginative fantasy adventure that you can’t stop reading because it sucks you in so thoroughly? Egg and Spoon is all these and more.

Over the last couple of years, the kids and I have listened to some outstanding audiobooks. Perhaps I should call out Terry Pratchett as a favorite author, but with commendation to Neil Gaiman, Richard Peck, Grace Lin, and Kate DiCamillo for particularly deep thought and strong themes. 

This book too had a wonderful depth, and multiple layers to appeal to a wide range of listeners. My eight-year-old younger son was effusive about it after just a couple of chapters, before it even got into the exciting parts. The writing is outstanding in my opinion. The vocabulary is good, and Maguire knows enough of his literature to make some really good jokes involving writers from Shakespeare to Pushkin, to say nothing of the philosophical wordplay.

The basic plot is this: Elena is a poor peasant girl, whose father was killed - along with the other girls her age - in a tragic flood. Her mother is dying, and all the healthy males from the village have been conscripted by the Tsar. When her brothers too are taken, one for military service, the other for domestic service, she is left alone. Then, a chartered train - the first in years - makes a stop in the village while a bridge ahead is repaired, and Elena meets Ekaterina, a wealthy girl on her way to a soiree wherein a bride - perhaps her - will be picked for the Tsar's grandson.

An accident results in Elena and Ekaterina being switched; Elena finds herself in luxury, headed for St. Petersburg, while Kat flees the hostile villagers and is lured to Baba Yaga’s hut.

 This illustration was in a review of the book, but I couldn't find out whether it was an illustration from the book or not.

Either way, it is a good one...

It appears she may be eaten as is the usual fate of such children, but she throws a wrench in the work when she gives Baba Yaga the gift which was intended to the Tsar: a custom made Faberge Egg. (If you want to know more about these eggs, which each contain a “surprise,” Wikipedia has a description and a list.)

This particular (fictional) egg has three windows which reveal three scenes, which will become important to the story as it unfolds. The first is a picture of Baba Yaga and her hut. The second is of the Firebird. The third is of an ice dragon. The specifics of this egg appear to be based on the “Caucasus” egg, which had four painted scenes as its “surprise.” Maguire combines this with some other eggs containing miniature sculptures - the scenes in this egg are done as dioramas within the egg.

Baba Yaga is taken aback by this gift, which appears to thwart her gustatory intentions. She then has to make common cause with Kat, as she too wants to go see the Tsar. In her case, she wishes to inquire why Russia seems to be losing its magic.

On the way to St. Petersburg, Elena has an encounter with the Firebird, and tries to steal a feather. (For those who know the legend, if one can do that, one gets a wish.) Instead, a hen steals the feather, and the Firebird self-immolates, to be reborn. Except that, for some reason, it goes wrong, and the egg never hatches. Thus, Elena too has an egg - a Firebird egg.

Upon arrival at St. Petersburg, it is evident that things are going wrong all over. The winter has ended before its time, and everything is flooded. Why is this happening, and what can be done to set things to rights? Eventually, it falls to Elena, Kat, Baba Yaga, and the Tsar's godson to investigate and try to restore Russia - and the world - to equilibrium.

Maguire does a good job with the characters. Baba Yaga is perhaps the central character, and I would guess was the author’s favorite. She is thoroughly zany, to say the least, being perhaps the evil twin of The Sword and the Stone’s Merlin. She has time traveled, and keeps name dropping famous characters of the past - and future. But in really quirky and amusing ways. She is wicked in so many ways, or at least tries so hard to be, but she ends up bonding with the girls in spite of her best efforts. She is both comic relief and one of the wiser characters.

Other characters which stood out were the wise and philosophical “doctor,” Peter Petrovich, who is thrust into his role because he is the only person available. Trained as a veterinarian, he must serve a human clientele because no one else can. His wry observations, gentle compassion, and absurdly optimistic way of looking at life are enjoyable. Kat also has three companions, each interesting in their own way. Her nearsighted and corpulent aunt, Madame Sophia, is complex, being both ludicrous and yet a beacon of morality and compassion in a society of selfishness. The French butler and the English governess are both stock characters and yet fresh twists on their types. Anton starts out as a vapid and spoiled boy, but chooses to pursue adventure and a quest rather than marinate in his wealth.

And that’s before we even get to the giant matryoshka dolls come to life, and the dragon-tooth soldiers (a la Jason and the Argonauts of Greek mythology). Legends old and new, and from around the world find themselves woven into the story in unexpected ways.

In the end, though, the story has a serious theme which becomes apparent in glimpses before coming together in the end. What ultimately brings evil to the world is selfishness and greed. It is the refrain of “I want” that disturbs the Ice Dragon. The cure, as Kat and Elena realize, is to spend less effort on “I want” and more on generosity, compassion, and helping one another. It’s also a reminder that “love your neighbor” requires both individual generosity and a change to the structures which impoverish many to feed the luxury of a few. Kat and Madame Sophia may choose to be individually generous - which is good - but change must come to the institutions that grant the powerful the ability to impoverish the weak. As history (see for example American slavery…) has shown, both are important, and the individual tends to lead to the universal. 

A couple of notes. First, Maguire does use an interesting framing device, having Brother Uri, an imprisoned monk tell the story. He eventually appears in the story, about two-thirds of the way through. For the adult reader, this raises the question of whether he is a reliable narrator or not. Second, the audiobook is narrated by Michael Page, a veteran reader. You can find his name all over as an audiobook narrator, and with good reason. He did an outstanding job on this one, with all the voices distinct, and the sound levels compatible with travel.

Anyway, we really loved this book, and recommend it.  

***

A book like this requires music. The obvious place to start is with Igor Stravinsky’s Firebird. The ballet was followed by different suites drawn from the music. The best known is the 1919 suite, which is the one I have performed. (We are playing it again this fall.)

The Royal Ballet’s version of the full work is worth looking up as well.

The legend of the Ice Dragon dates back to Norse Mythology, but has been recently popularized by Game of Thrones, apparently. (I haven’t gone down that rabbit hole yet, but google results for “ice dragon” leads to more GoT hits than you can fathom.) Lacking enough knowledge to find a clip from that, I will go with Howard Shore’s score to the second Hobbit movie. Too bad the movies weren’t as good as the score.

And, finally, the third of the legends found in the egg: Baba Yaga. Pictures at an Exhibition is one of my favorite orchestral works. Mussorgsky's work for piano, as re-imagined for orchestra by Maurice Ravel is delightful throughout. The legend of Baba Yaga gets a treatment in “The Hut on Fowl’s Legs.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RIx1vkDNiUw

Reading With My Kids: The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo

Source of book: We own this, but we listened to it as an audiobook on our vacation.

My second daughter loves all things rodent. Her first favorite stuffed animal was a mouse, and she now has an extensive collection of mice and rats, all individually named. Many are, naturally, named after varieties of cheese. (She is extraordinarily fond of cheese - just like her father.) When the kids were picking out audiobooks to take with us on our vacation, she picked The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo, as it was one of her favorites - but one I had never read, so she was eager to introduce me to it.

(As another example of her rodent love, she - and my elder daughter - chose to bring the stuffed kangaroo rats they got during our trip to Death Valley National Park back in January on this trip…)

Despereaux was published in 2003, which would explain why I never read it as a child.

Like most good children’s books, this one is filled with ideas and themes that are universal to all ages. I probably should give my older daughters (ages 11 and 9) credit for understanding most of them, but I found that they were equally interesting to an adult. As in many great stories, there is the triumph of the misunderstood underdog, a chance at redemption for several villains, a quest inspired by high ideals and love, and much wit in between. Also, a bit of commentary on the politics of despotism and the glories of soup. In the right hands, this is a recipe for a charming tale.

I won’t spoil the plot, because that is part of the fun. Rather, I will note that Despereaux, a young mouse with a shocking love for reading, rather than scurrying, falls in love with the princess. He is sent to the dungeon for sure death after he breaks the mouse code by talking with humans, but manages to survive by wit and the friendship of the jailor. In the meantime, we hear the stories of Miggery Sow, a peasant girl sold into slavery by her father, and Chiaroscuro (aka, Roscuro), a rat with a love for light and beauty who has sworn revenge on the Princess.

These three (with Despereaux himself) form the three main characters of the book. All three desire to transcend their station in life. Despereaux wishes to find himself in a fairy tale, with high ideals of love and honor and courage. Mig wishes to be a princess, rather than an abused scullery maid. Roscuro wishes to live in the light and beauty, not the darkness sought by both rats.

None of the three ultimately achieve their goals in the way they anticipated, but all are able to find transcendence in a different, partial form, and can be said to live “happily ever after,” as the author interprets the fairy tale ending.

There are a few great lines that I want to mention. After disaster befalls the kingdom as a result of Roscuro’s attempt to join a grand banquet (rats and banquets do not go together well), the king outlaws soup and all of its implements: spoons, bowls, and kettles. He also attempts to outlaw rats, which is silly because nobody likes rats anyway - they are already outlaws. As the author puts it, though, “When you are king, you may make as many ridiculous laws as you like. That is what being a king is all about.” I might add that this also applies to legislators and bureaucrats too…

The whole naming of Chiaroscuro was fun too. For those not familiar with the art term, it is the treatment of light and shade, specifically, an effect of contrasted light and shadow created by light falling unevenly or from a particular direction on something. Roscuro is fascinated by light, even though, as a rat, he is part of the realm of the shadow. He can never live comfortably in either realm, but he aspires to light and beauty.

Chiaroscuro was particularly popular during the Renaissance. Rembrandt used it in many of his paintings, but probably Caravaggio was the most notable for his use and perfection of the technique. 

 There are so many outstanding Rembrandts to choose from.

I’ll go with An Old Man In Red just because I love the characterization - Rembrandt’s outstanding ability.

Likewise, Caravaggio painted so many masterpieces of chiaroscuro, but I will go with The Supper at Emmaus.

Another fun thing about the way that this book uses outside references is the fact that the mice - particularly Despereaux’s family - tend to have French or English names, (Despereaux’s mother is French) while the rats are all Italian. Not just Italian, but Renaissance art related Italian. The other notable rat is Botticelli, named after the Renaissance painter most famous for The Birth of Venus.

The Birth of Venus by Botticelli.

 

Botticelli the rat is notable for his philosophical views on the meaning of life.

“The meaning of life,” said Botticelli, “is suffering. Specifically, the suffering of others.” Botticelli believes that his life becomes meaningful through his ability to make the prisoners suffer. It is the purpose of a rat, after all. “Evil. Prisoners. Rats. Suffering. It all fits together so neatly, so sweetly. Oh it is a lovely world, a lovely dark world.”

It is a deliciously awful idea, of course, and deliciously awful stuff is the bread and butter of a good story. Too much light by itself is no fun at all, as there is no conflict, and thus no growth. It is that very chiaroscuro, that contrast of light and darkness, which makes for a great tale of a certain type. (Other stories gain their interest from the subtleties of human nature, the inseparable mixture of light and dark within the human soul.) In this case, both occur. There is the pure dark of Botticelli and the pure light, if you will, of the princess or Despereaux; but there is also the mixed light and dark of Roscuro and Mig, who eventually must choose which side of their nature to follow.

Overall, I must say that my daughter has good taste in books, because we all enjoyed this one very much.

I also need to mention that, while not present in the audiobook for obvious reasons, the illustrations by Timothy Basil Ering are greatly beloved by my daughter. She mentioned at the key points in the story how hilarious and delightful a particular illustration was in the physical book.

To that end, I will include here one of her favorites: Roscuro, with his stolen soup spoon. 

Really a delightful children’s book, and one I can recommend as fun for adults as well.