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September 29, 2021
These fantastic volumes will send the art lovers in your life on a journey through mystical worlds.
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As the apprentice to Mestra Aronne, 11-year-old Cinzia knows that strength lies in telling the truth. Together, she and Mestra Aronne print avvisi: hand-created newspapers that update the bustling city of Siannerra on the latest news.
When Mestra Aronne announces in an avvisi that the principessa’s brother is stealing money from hardworking citizens, she and Cinzia are dragged to the palazzo to be charged with treason. Cinzia manages to escape, returning to Siannerra with the help of the principessa’s strange but passionate daughter, Elena. Together, they set off to find evidence that Mestra Aronne was telling the truth and save her from jail, with the help of a pirate girl and her gang. Can Cinzia convince the people of Siannerra to help stop censorship in their city?
The first collaboration between New York Times bestselling author Marieke Nijkamp and debut illustrator Sylvia Bi, Ink Girls pulls inspiration from Italian history as it explores the power of truth. The central issue of censorship is the most obvious echo of our modern era, but other subplots—including how city leadership can fail to consider marginalized groups, and how “not every family knows how to be a family”—also make this historical fantasy graphic novel feel fresh and relevant.
Bi excels with spreads of the vast cityscape, and her charming illustrations feature inclusive character designs, though some of the panels are drawn at awkward angles. This shouldn’t be an issue for anything but the more eagle-eyed readers: the plot, pacing and colors are compelling enough to keep the story moving forward.
Although the ending wraps up perhaps too neatly for a book with political themes, there is no doubt that readers will feel inspired. Back matter explains how avvisi actually once existed in Italy, and while the city of Siannerra isn’t real, Nijkamp and Bi hope their fictional girls can provide motivation to improve the real world.
Ink Girls will resonate with readers facing censorship in their own communities, while also delighting those just looking for a historical adventure. Hand this to fans of Netflix’s The Sea Beast or pair with Niki Smith’s The Deep & Dark Blue and Ru Xu’s NewsPrints as stories featuring girl gangs and political intrigue.
As Christina Wyman’s heartfelt and often heartbreakingly realistic Jawbreaker opens, Maximillia (Max) Plink receives distressing news from her orthodontist.
Dr. Watson says Max’s braces aren’t enough to prevent possible future double jaw surgery—it’s time to start wearing headgear known as “the jawbreaker” for 16 hours a day. It’s yet another thing that makes Max, a witty and kind seventh grader, feel like an outsider in her own life. She observes, “I basically have a shiny metal orb around my head. You could probably stand me on the roof of your house to get a better Wi-Fi signal.”
Despite this unwelcome fashion statement, Max perseveres. She’s used to trying to stay positive, because she’s already relentlessly bullied at school. The most enthusiastic participant in this cruelty is her own younger sister, Alex. Their parents routinely downplay Max’s concerns. Worried about finances, they’re having loud arguments more frequently than usual.
Thankfully, Max finds respite with her best friend Shrynn and as a writer for her school newspaper. When she learns of a journalism competition sponsored by their local Brooklyn news station, it sounds like the path to a happier future. But there’s a catch: A video essay is required for entry. “The thought of my face, my mouth, my teeth living online until the end of time makes me want to cry,” Max thinks.
Tantalizing suspense builds as the contest deadline approaches. As Max contends with all the stressors swirling around her, she wrestles with difficult questions: Should she insist her parents do something about Alex? Would it be a mistake to enter the contest and show her face to the world? Why is Shrynn acting so standoffish lately?
Wyman demonstrates an impressive ability to conjure up both the pain and delight of middle school with immediacy and empathy. An impassioned author’s note reveals that Wyman’s own background inspired this sometimes harrowing, but ultimately hopeful, story. “Sometimes finding joy takes a lot of work,” she notes. Reading Jawbreaker is an excellent and highly gratifying start.
In a magnificent flourish, an elephant bursts forth from an old teapot; a small blackbird breaks out from behind the glass of a framed engraving; a bewildered girl emerges from behind a folding blue screen. This is how The Magicians awaken and leave the abandoned house in which they’ve slumbered for years. They are soon chased by the Huntress and the Clinker, a fiery mechanical cross between a lion and a dragon. This pursuit reaches a grand scale as it traverses a true carnival of settings—including a pastoral village, a blank realm “outside” the physical world, and a golden plain that serves as a battlefield.
Both children and adults will be dazzled by the intricate details and textures of the bold silk-screen-style illustrations. Blexbolex’s careful compositions evoke sweeping action and emotion, and one will want to constantly leave The Magicians open for display. With its jaunty blue text and cream-colored, double-layered pages, the physical printing of this volume is impeccable—among the best of the year—and accentuates the reading experience.
Translator Karin Snelson smoothly derives a folkloric cadence from the original French prose: As the blackbird “marauds through fields and orchards . . . the day passes deliciously” and later becomes “charged with a heavy nostalgia.” Elevated word choice and spirited phrasing give a timeless quality to this fantastic graphic novel, which muses upon mercy, change and possibility. Just as any gift should, The Magicians certainly lends itself to endless revisiting with its thematic and emotional depth.
When Renée Watson read her first Ramona Quimby book as a child, she was startled by where Beverly Cleary’s beloved heroine lived: Klickitat Street was just around the corner from Watson’s aunt’s home in Portland, Oregon. “I was so in awe that a character in a book could live in my city and in a neighborhood that I was very familiar with,” Watson remembers. “It was empowering. I didn’t know how to articulate that as a child except to say, ‘I know where she lives.’” From that moment on, whenever Watson visited her aunt, it became a running joke to say, “Ramona is your neighbor.”
Now, as an adult writing for young people, Watson divides her time between Portland and New York. Ways to Build Dreams is the fourth and likely final installment in her middle grade series about Ryan Hart, a lively, inquisitive Black girl who lives in Portland, just like Ramona Quimby. “I see the power in representation,” Watson says, speaking from her Harlem home. “We say that a lot when it comes to race, but I also think where people live and the names of places and the histories of places matter too.”
“The Ryan Hart series is in many ways a love letter to Portland,” Watson continues. “Portland is the perfect balance of city and nature, and I really wanted to highlight that. I’ve done a lot of work critiquing Portland and talking about some of its challenging, harmful issues, but there’s also so much to love.” For instance, in Ways to Build Dreams, Ryan and her family take a day trip driving along the Columbia River, with stops at Latourell Falls and Vista House at Crown Point. Ryan also attends Vernon Elementary, the school Watson attended in real life. “I was trying to model the series after [Beverly Cleary] in that same way of actually naming real places in the city so that young people in Portland could have an anchor and really see their city represented.” (She also features her hometown in several books for older readers, such as Piecing Me Together, which received a Newbery Honor and a Coretta Scott King Award).
“Portland is the perfect balance of city and nature, and I really wanted to highlight that. I’ve done a lot of work critiquing Portland and talking about some of its challenging, harmful issues, but there’s also so much to love.”
Watson remembers that she loved reading about Ramona because “she is not perfect and has flaws and can throw tantrums and feel all of her emotions. At the time, that just felt so freeing because there weren’t a lot of girl characters who could be as bold, feisty and human.” She loosely based Ryan’s personality on that of her goddaughter, who is now 15—and also named Ryan Hart. “In every book I write, the main character’s name is intentional,” Watson notes. “I was just thinking of Ryan as being a more traditional male name and was going to build off of it. But then, as I looked into what her name means, I was like, ‘Oh my goodness, it is just so perfect.’” Ryan means “little king” in Gaelic, and that connotation has become an anchor for every book. “I wanted to make sure that I’m constantly bringing the reader back to this notion of living up to your name or to what your loved ones wish for you,” Watson explains.
While the character named Ryan is an active kid who rides her bike and gets in water balloon fights, Watson notes: “I was not that girl. If we were going to the park, I would be the one who would bring my book with me or my journal, and I would sit under the tree and write poems or read while my friends were playing. I was a quiet and very creative child—very introspective.” Still, Ryan’s family dynamics and adventures, while fictional, are inspired by Watson’s own childhood.
During middle school, Watson was bused to a white school on the other side of town, an experience she described in a moving 1995 essay, “Black Like Me.” One day, her seventh grade science teacher chastised the class for failing a test on which Watson got an A, saying, “And this is why I am so disappointed in all of you. You let Renée Watson come all the way over here from northeast Portland and get a better grade than you in science!” When Watson later pondered that painful moment, she wondered, “What if she had allowed space in her narrative for black children from northeast Portland to be capable of meeting high expectations, of achieving academic success? What if she really saw me?”
Watson answers that question in many ways with the Ryan Hart books, filling them with moments of Black joy and achievement. Ways to Build Dreams begins with Ryan and her classmates working on a group history project about Beatrice Morrow Cannady, a community activist and educator, and the owner of Oregon’s largest Black newspaper—a story Watson had been wanting to explore for some time.
While Watson enjoyed reading about Ramona Quimby, she saw more of a reflection of herself in the poetry of Maya Angelou, Langston Hughes, Nikki Giovanni and Gwendolyn Brooks: “Those poets raised me.” She adds that Sandra Cisneros’ novel The House on Mango Street (which is about a Latina girl growing up in Chicago) gave her “permission to write about home in the way that home was for me—a Black neighborhood, Black music, the food, all of that.” She adds, “I’m constantly trying to show young people in my books, ‘Hey, I see you and I know what you are capable of.’”
Watson’s goal is to provide “a nuanced telling of the Black community.” With Ryan Hart, she “leans into the joy more so than the pain.”
“So I do have these cultural moments, but they’re very much tied into these slices of the everydayness of being a Black girl in a city like Portland. . . . Because really, that was my childhood. Yes, there were hardships, but mostly there were family dinners and cookouts and neighbors looking out for me and teachers who loved me. We didn’t have a whole lot of money, but we had a whole lot of love.”
Some of Watson’s favorite scenes occur when Ryan’s grandmother washes and fixes her hair. “In Black culture, it really is a big deal because there’s so much conversation around our hair,” she says. “I wanted to highlight different hairstyles throughout the series, and normalize her getting her hair done and the way in which we do it. Those times I remember as a child were so sacred because you’re spending a lot of time with that person. You have conversations that you might not have [when facing each other]. [These scenes] became such an anchor in each book, where that’s really a breakthrough moment for Ryan. Usually, she’s telling Grandma about something that’s happening that’s not so great, and Grandma gives her some wisdom.”
Watson has always known that the series would end with Ryan graduating from fifth grade, which she does in Ways to Build Dreams. Still, she can’t help being a little sad to have finished the final installment.
Might we see Ryan again, perhaps in books focused on her siblings, Ray or Rose?
“Oh, I’ve never thought about that,” Watson says. “That’s a very good thing to think about.”
Author Matt Wallace excels at depicting realistic family scenarios, complex moral dilemmas, and good-hearted, but flawed, adults.
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Hannah Morrissey’s small-town murder mystery When I’m Dead is nigh-on impossible to put down.
Longtime New Yorker cartoonist Roz Chaste’s I Must Be Dreaming is an uproarious, touching and zany ride.
The Dictionary People—which chronicles the unsung heroes who contributed to the Oxford English Dictionary—is sheer delight.
Michael Gross’ delightful cultural history of WASPs illuminates the odd corners of the lives of our nation’s elite—and American history itself.
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Beautiful and expertly executed, The Reformatory is a horror masterpiece that derives its power from both the magical and the mundane.
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“A thin and scrawny thing,” Elpidia has been repeatedly attacked by her female cousins in a family feud that extends to the family’s youngest members. She lives with her Abuela in a trailer and helps out at Abuela’s cantina while dreaming of someday owning a food truck and escaping the barren Southern California desert. Her parents burned down their home and are in prison for drug-related convictions.
Her classmate Stan—the only white kid in their sixth-grade class—is dealing with bullying as well, and is unable to protect himself against his father’s drunken rages. Stan’s mother and Elpidia’s grandmother independently decide that their charges need to learn how to defend themselves, so they take them into the deep desert to learn from Charlie Ramos, a legendary local figure known as “El Escorpion” who teaches a style of Filipino fighting. Nowhere Special will engross readers from start to finish. Before turning to writing, author Matt Wallace was a professional wrestler and instructor in unarmed combat and self-defense. He notes in a content advisory that the book addresses “heavy issues with very personal meanings to me, and I’ve done my absolute best to write about them in a way that will be appropriate for preteen readers.” Characters throughout the novel’s memorable scenes struggle to develop the responsibility and judgment needed to escape a destructive, unending cycle of violence.
Wallace excels at depicting realistic family scenarios, complex moral dilemmas, and good-hearted, but flawed, adults. Nowhere Special offers moments of hope and redemption amidst poverty and great tragedy. Although there are no tidy resolutions, Stan and Elpidia grow empowered and discover the salvation that close friendships can provide. Despite the seemingly insurmountable difficulty of their family and social situations, these protagonists’ dreams feel possible by the end of the book.
On a gloomy winter afternoon, a quiet and lonely 11-year-old named Kara Lukas notices a snow angel by the lake near the Stockholm apartment she shares with her busy mom. Something about it strikes her as strange: There are no footprints anywhere near. Curious, Kara traipses out onto the snow to look more closely. As she snaps a picture with her phone, Kara has the eerie sense someone is watching her.
So begins Stockholm-based Matthew Fox’s evocative debut middle grade novel, The Sky Over Rebecca, which won the 2019 Bath Children’s Novel Award as an unpublished manuscript.
Kara spends her school holiday break exploring her strange discovery by the lake, which leads her to find a girl named Rebecca and Rebecca’s younger brother, Samuel, who is unable to walk. The cold, hungry siblings are camping alone on the lake’s island, so Kara brings them food and an old blue coat that once belonged to her mother. Kara comes to realize the siblings are from a different time: 1944. They are Jewish refugees on the run from the Nazis, hoping to be rescued by a British plane that Rebecca believes will land on the frozen lake.
As the dangers to Rebecca and Samuel in their own time intensify and her friendship with Rebecca builds, Kara musters up courage and decides to do all she can to save them—even if it means taking dangerous risks out on the ice.
Fox’s spare yet lyrical prose is well-suited to The Sky Over Rebecca’s haunting, austere setting and atmosphere. The novel’s stylistic restraint and vividly drawn characters will intrigue young readers and help them easily follow narrative shifts between the horrifying, wartorn past and the less deadly but still frightening present.
The Sky Over Rebecca does not shy away from somber subjects, including death. Fox introduces the terror of persecution in an accessible manner for young readers who may be reading about the Holocaust for the first time. A poignant final twist leads to a resonant conclusion in this memorable first novel.
Renée Watson’s Ryan Hart series demonstrates timeless, universal appeal while examining the worries of all sizes that loom large in its protagonist’s life. It proves Watson—recipient of both a Newbery Honor and a Coretta Scott King Award—to be a more-than-worthy successor to Beverly Cleary, creator of the beloved character Ramona Quimby.
Ryan is a spirited Black girl in Portland, Oregon, trying to find her place in the world. Her parents and grandmother have always told her and her older brother, “You were put on this earth to do something.” In her fourth adventure, Ways to Build Dreams, a fifth-grade assignment on identifying dreams leads Ryan to worry, “Everyone has a big dream except me.”
Watson makes it easy for fans and newcomers alike to plunge into the story of Ryan and her family. Although the novel’s 20 short chapters move briskly along from January to the end of the school year, Watson expertly weaves many plot strands together and balances action with quiet, touching moments of reflection.
At school, Ryan completes a group history project about Beatrice Morrow Cannady, editor of Oregon’s largest Black newspaper, and frets about whether her own goals of being a chef and a good big sister to her baby sister, Rose, are too simple. As Ryan also spends time with her best friends, KiKi—who may go to a different middle school next year—and Amanda, the girls all realize they are growing up. In a spring outing to a tulip farm, they grapple with whether they are too old to get their faces painted. Change is in the air throughout these pages, and Grandma tells Ryan she is “just thinking of all you’re becoming and what lies ahead for you.”
The cast of supportive adults—Ryan’s parents, Grandma and Ryan’s excellent teacher—provide reassurance about dreams big and small. Similarly, Ryan, Rose and their older brother Ray’s sibling relationship is ultimately one of love and encouragement, even if it also includes friendly rivalry and teasing. Elementary school readers will not only be entertained but also readily identify with the sometimes overwhelming sense of change that Ryan faces.
Jab. Duck-bap-bap. Jab. Duck-bap-bap. Duckbapbap. Duckbapbap. Find your rhythm. Feel your fists against the pads. Know where your next move is and who’s on your side. In Torrey Maldonado’s Hands, getting stronger, faster and tougher is all that 12-year-old Trevor cares about.
As the book opens, Trevor’s life has been turned upside down. His stepdad has been arrested for hitting his mom and has threatened revenge against her for calling the police. In that moment, Trevor promised himself that no one will ever hit his mom ever again.
It doesn’t matter that grown-ups keep telling him that he shows promise—academic promise, artistic promise, athletic promise—or that his dad and uncles wanted him to stay in school so he could get out of the projects. What matters to Trevor is that he has to protect his mom and sisters, and sometimes, he thinks, you just have to solve things with your hands.
Trevor throws himself into getting stronger and learning to fight, first on his own and later with his friend P, who moves into Trevor’s building. But when the trainer at the rec center refuses to help with training because he promised Trevor’s Uncle Lou that he would help Trevor “not to think with his fists,” Trevor begins to wonder whether fighting will solve his problems or just make new ones.
Hands is a compact, fast-paced novel narrated in a poetic, stream-of-consciousness style. Maldonado uses short, staccato sentences like feinted boxing jabs to draw readers in, then rocks them with explosive uppercuts of words and emotions, knocking them into unsteadiness and leaving them uncertain how the next round will go. Trevor’s journey through fear, anger and abandonment toward finding support and true strength is authentic and hopeful.
At just 128 pages, Hands is Maldonado’s shortest work. Although its length makes it approachable for older but less adept readers, the book never sacrifices linguistic or narrative complexity. Readers who enjoy realistic, slice-of-life fiction will be quickly engaged by Trevor’s story, and Maldonado will keep them hooked through all 10 rounds.
When Caldecott Medalist Jerry Pinkney died in late 2021, he left behind an inspiring legacy, including the illustrations for more than 100 published books. It turns out that he also left behind an unfinished memoir about his boyhood during the late 1940s and ’50s, when he grew up on an all-Black block on East Earlham Street in Philadelphia.
According to a note from Pinkney’s editor, Andrea Spooner, Pinkney had not yet completed the dozens of graphite drawings he had intended to incorporate into Just Jerry: How Drawing Shaped My Life when he died. But he had finished the text and created many preparatory sketches as well as specific instructions for the book’s design. Fortunately for readers, Pinkney’s publisher chose to move forward with publication, using the available materials to achieve Pinkney’s goal of creating a visually immersive effect while also giving the book a lively, improvisatory feel. As it so happens, using sketchbook pages to illustrate a memoir about a young person’s growing identity as a visual artist is particularly apt: The narrator, like the art, is a work in progress.
Pinkney, who had five siblings, describes seizing any available area in his overstuffed childhood home for drawing, including a favorite spot under the piano. He recalls how visits to his New Jersey relatives inspired his lifelong love of nature, and how much he admired his father’s ability to build things with his hands. Pinkney also writes frankly about the obstacles in his path, including segregation at school and coping with a learning disability. (He was diagnosed with dyslexia as an adult.)
The most powerful aspects of Pinkney’s story involve the adults who recognized his innate artistic talents and gave them space to flourish. An elementary school teacher appointed Pinkney “class artist” to alleviate his difficulties with reading, and the owner of the newsstand where Pinkney found his first job allowed him to sell his drawings along with newspapers and introduced him to his first artistic mentor. Even Pinkney’s father, who worried about his son’s ability to make a living as an artist, encouraged his talents by letting him draw on the walls of his bedroom. Just Jerry is a moving and vivid reminder that a life in art can be made possible through hard work and dedication, and by giving talented young people the tools and support they need to succeed.
It can be fun to speculate about nature versus nurture, to consider which of our quirks might be innate and which might have been shaped by where or with whom we grew up. While we’re at it, we can also ponder that well-known question of Shakespearean origin: What’s in a name?
But Shenanigan Swift, the clever and engaging hero of Beth Lincoln’s debut novel, The Swifts: A Dictionary of Scoundrels, has recently realized that such musings aren’t so enjoyable anymore. Although Shenanigan’s name earns her a pass when she’s feeling stubborn or has done something an eensy bit destructive (like putting the family cat in the empty coffin before the monthly rehearsal of her aunt’s funeral), it also makes her feel misunderstood when others insist on seeing her solely as an embodiment of her name instead of as an individual.
However, Shenanigan is far from the only Swift with a name that’s both prediction and label. For generations, the Swifts have used their family dictionary to randomly select names that somehow become destinies. Shenanigan’s older sisters are named Phenomena and Felicity, her uncle is Maelstrom, her ancestors include Calamitous and Godwottery (the latter meaning “overly elaborate gardening” or “old-fashioned and affected language”), and the Swift family matriarch is Arch-Aunt Schadenfreude. Hilariously, the aforementioned cat is simply “John the Cat.”
This weekend, Shenanigan will meet even more relatives with dictionary-dictated names, because the Swift family reunion is nigh. Far-flung folks will descend upon the stately yet decrepit Swift House, a 17th-century manor packed with secret doors, the occasional turret and a library that holds both books and booby traps. It’s the perfect setting for the keystone activity of every reunion: the hunt for Grand-Uncle Vile’s long-lost fortune, which Shenanigan is determined to find all by herself. Alas, Shenanigan’s plans are interrupted when someone shoves Arch-Aunt Schadenfreude down the stairs, and other murders soon follow. Amid the ensuing shock and chaos, Shenanigan and Phenomena team up to solve the crimes before anyone else is harmed.
Rife with delicious tension and charmingly dry wit, The Swifts explores and celebrates the wonders of wordplay and the complexity of identity while serving up a compelling murder mystery and a twisty treasure hunt. As Lincoln notes in her introduction, “The thing about language is that it can’t stay still. Restless and impatient, it races forward without waiting for our dictionaries to catch up.” Word nerds will emphatically agree—and they’ll be delighted to know that a sequel is in the works, too.
I read the entirety of award-winning poet and novelist Honorée Fanonne Jeffers’ masterwork, all 816 pages of it, on the tiny screen of my phone during a trip throughout Washington. I can’t think of any other epic book that would be worth that kind of reading experience, but The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois is special. While driving across the state, I regularly came across attempts to recognize and honor the Indigenous peoples who once populated that land, gestures that I don’t often see in the South where I live. For this reason, the long gaze of Jeffers’ novel felt like the answer to a prayer. It tells the full history of an American family—whose heritage is African, Creek and Scottish—and their centurieslong connection to a bit of Georgia land, as revealed by the research of one descendant, Ailey. It made me wish that all American lands could have their chance to tell their full stories, all the way back to the beginning.
—Cat, Deputy Editor
It is rare that a book simultaneously checks the boxes of timely, important, in-depth and narratively gripping. But the 640 pages of journalist Patrick Radden Keefe’s Empire of Pain walk the line between an impressively researched tome and a page-turning, propulsive story. Keefe’s 2021 tour de force recounts the full, damning tale of the Sackler family, spanning three generations of this American dynasty and their dealings at Purdue Pharma, the pharmaceutical company that produces the opioid pain pill OxyContin. The Sacklers worked hard to keep their name from being associated with OxyContin, and Empire of Pain makes it clear why—from their invention of the concept of marketing prescription drugs, to their tactic of offering regional sales reps monetary incentives for getting more doctors to prescribe more of their drugs, to their outright lies about how their product would not lead to addiction. It is a harrowing story of one family’s catastrophic contributions to the opioid crisis, masterfully told by a top-notch writer.
—Christy, Associate Editor
“You have fished in the waters of history and arranged some fractured pieces into a picture . . . but your determination to make it truth does not mean it is so,” declares Ead, one of the heroines of The Priory of the Orange Tree. Reading Samantha Shannon’s 848-page novel can feel like arranging fractured pieces into a complete picture, as it depicts the intersecting journeys of four narrators from different corners of an exquisitely detailed fantasy world. Ead, Tané, Niclays and Loth each have deeply held beliefs about the nature of good and evil, and a crisis that could annihilate humanity is bringing those beliefs into conflict. I will admit that I picked up the book for its Sapphic love story, and that’s a good reason to read it. The romance was tender and gorgeous, unfolding slowly enough to surprise me even though I was looking for it. However, when the casualties become devastating, what keeps you going is the thrill of connecting fragments of history and mythology from each storyline, knowing you will “see soon enough whose truth is correct.”
—Phoebe, Subscriptions
There are many reasons that British journalist, writer and editor Tina Brown could land on one’s radar. She’s the founding editor-in-chief of The Daily Beast, the first female editor of The New Yorker and the author of two bestselling books on the royal family. But the achievement that cemented Brown’s reputation was her miraculous turnaround of Vanity Fair. Resurrected by Condé Nast in 1983, the new VF was floundering, so the 30-year-old Brown quickly engaged talent like Dominick Dunne, Gail Sheehy and Helmut Newton, and wooed advertisers like Calvin Klein and Ralph Lauren. Controversial stories grabbed headlines; so did provocative covers (who can forget the shot of a nude, pregnant Demi Moore?). Brown loves gossip and has a sharp wit, which means her behind-the-scenes stories of the 1980s NYC glitterati alone could carry 500 pages of memoir. But she’s also honest about the mistakes she’s made and the challenge of balancing a family and career. The Vanity Fair Diaries will leave you hoping Brown chronicled her time at the New Yorker too.
—Trisha, Publisher
The American Library Association’s Caldecott Medal is awarded each year to “the artist of the most distinguished American picture book for children.” In 2008, it was won by this love letter to French inventor and film director George Mélies. To make a 544-page story short, it’s extraordinary, with 158 pencil drawings that will make you rethink everything you think you know about what picture books can be. The Invention of Hugo Cabret begins by inviting you to “picture yourself sitting in the darkness, like the beginning of a movie” and then captures your imagination via 21 wordless spreads. In many ways, Brian Selznick’s story is about small things that combine to form a creation greater than the sum of its parts, from a boy who lives in a train station and steals toys from the cantankerous owner of a toy booth to paragraphs filled with exquisitely yet economically observed details. Few picture books can be described as perfect, but this is one of them.
—Stephanie, Associate Editor
Correction, February 15, 2023: This article previously misspelled the name of Dominick Dunne.
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