What makes the book a tad disjointed is its organization and style. Goodwin arranges the book jumpily, starting in the middle, retreating to various beginnings, and ending up in modern America with more puzzlement than definitive answers. What really makes the book jumbled, however, is Goodwin’s addition of of time-jumping. While he mainly confines himself to moments within the sixteenth century, Goodwin also occasionally leaps centuries into the present day. Sometimes this is done with admirable elegance and he uses the leap to make meaningful points about the story he’s telling. Other times, it’s less tidy and comes off as random.

On the whole, however, it’s a very interesting book that takes a detailed and thoughtful look at the less successful side of Spanish conquest in the New World. In the neat narrative of broad history, the Spanish seem to triumph handily over Mexico and South America. But in taking the time to explore this historical moment, some forty years after Columbus, Goodwin provides an interesting counterpoint to the accepted version of history more common on library shelves.

In this case, free to worry about other abandoned colonists throughout the Age of Exploration, most of whom I hadn’t even thought to fret over until reading Giles Milton’s excellent Big Chief Elizabeth: The Adventures and Fate of the First English Colonists in America.

Milton, a superb combination of story-weaver and historian if ever there was one, does a fine job explaining, exploring (har har), and contextualizing the successive waves of British attempts to colonize North America. But, best of all for Roanoke-fretters like myself, Milton is the first person I’ve read who persuasively and logically uncovers the fate of those colonists. His research into the source material and then his utilization of those sources in new ways to produce new, viable answers, is absolutely stunning. I read this book while on holiday in Virginia (it seemed appropriate), and I found myself wanting to read aloud practically every page since each one was as interesting and new as the last.

For anyone looking for an intelligent, but not weighty book to read by the beach the summer, look no further than Big Chief Elizabeth. It’s thorough, fascinating, and will relieve that big pile of worry you’ve been carrying around regarding Roanoke since the fourth grade. (Or was that just me?) Regardless, it’s a great read and one which I highly recommend.

1. No dialogue.
There is simply no way to verify conversations between historical figures and a biography should not attempt to “recreate” them.

2. No first names.
When referring to your subjects, it should be by last name, or first and last to save on confusion when dealing with a family who all have the same last names.

2a. Certainly never, ever use nicknames.

3. Support your statements. Quote your sources whenever possible.
Don’t just say so-and-so was much taken with something if there is no evidence to support such a statement. If you’re assuming or imagining, say so. (And then delete the whole sentence, because you really shouldn’t be imagining in a nonfiction book. That’s for novels.)

4. Correctly assess your sources.
If there isn’t enough source material to write a book on a topic or person, don’t write it. You should under no circumstances attempt such a book with spotty source material and just fill in the rest with what you imagined probably took place or was felt by your subject.

5. Leave feelings out of it. Both yours and the subject’s.
Tell us what happened, postulate on why it happened, discuss the aftermath, but please don’t ever assume to know how everyone felt about it happening. And don’t get carried away by your own feelings on the matter to project onto your topic.

I just found reading this book extremely trying, obviously. As just one example of all the above:

“Florence and Sam were blissfully happy in Bucharest, though Sam described the city to Min as ‘a mass of filth, the streets everywhere are five inches deep in black mud’ and complained of ‘fleas as big as bantam cocks and bugs as large as turbots.’ The rustic nature of Bucharest did not bother Sam and Florence in the least…they lived in a world of their own.” [49-50]

The sources seem to suggest that Florence and Samuel Baker were not blissfully happy nor were they not bothered by Bucharest. In fact, it sounds like they (and really, we’re just talking about Mr. Baker here) found it gross. And exactly what evidence is there to suggest they lived in a world of their own?

However, once I set aside my notions of how one should write history (and this effort took me a good chunk of the book), I must admit I learned a few things from this book. Not about Florence or Samuel Baker, really, who came across more as characters from some kind of contemporary romance novel the way Shipman writes of them than actual people, but about the British in the Sudan and the politics of exploring and annexing that area of Africa in the late 19th century. It’s an area of history literally touching my specialty (the British in Egypt proper), but one of which I had only a sketchy understanding. Until Shipman’s book.

Shipman, although I think she did a horrible job of writing a biography of Florence Baker—Florence is a largely imagined figure throughout the book, something which I can’t tell is due to a lack of sources or an overpowering fascination with her husband Samuel Baker taking over—actually does a very nice job of neatly and simply laying out the basics of the political situation in the Sudan. Thanks to her, I finally understood the whole Mad Mahdi/Gallant Gordon thing. It’s a slightly obscure piece of history, but one which I’d always wondered about.

So, if you can get on board with an anthropologist apologetically writing a history book (she does sort of admit that the book is written in, shall we say, an unorthodox manner in the preface), go for it. But honestly, I don’t think this book is worth the effort of doing so. You can no doubt find a better book about the British in the Sudan and you can certainly find better written biographies. And, if it’s Florence Baker you’re after, her diaries were published in 1972 so you can go straight to the source.

In the continuing adventures of “The Grimms be crazy,” I present their story “The Dog and the Sparrow.” I should note that this would more aptly be named “The Narratively-Pointless Dog, the Loyal and Vengeful Sparrow, and the Enraged, Totally Idiotic, Comeuppance-for-you-mister Man.”

This version translated by Edgar Taylor and Marian Edwardes from the Grimm’s original Kinder- und Hausmärchen.

A shepherd’s dog had a master who took no care of him, but often let him suffer the greatest hunger. At last he could bear it no longer; so he took to his heels, and off he ran in a very sad and sorrowful mood.

On the road he met a sparrow that said to him, ’Why are you so sad, my friend?’

’Because,’ said the dog, ’I am very very hungry, and have nothing to eat.’

’If that be all,’ answered the sparrow, ’come with me into the next town, and I will soon find you plenty of food.’

So on they went together into the town: and as they passed by a butcher’s shop, the sparrow said to the dog, ’Stand there a little while till I peck you down a piece of meat.’ So the sparrow perched upon the shelf: and having first looked carefully about her to see if anyone was watching her, she pecked and scratched at a steak that lay upon the edge of the shelf, till at last down it fell. Then the dog snapped it up, and scrambled away with it into a corner, where he soon ate it all up.

’Well,’ said the sparrow, ’you shall have some more if you will; so come with me to the next shop, and I will peck you down another steak.’

When the dog had eaten this too, the sparrow said to him, ’Well, my good friend, have you had enough now?’

’I have had plenty of meat,’ answered he, ’but I should like to have a piece of bread to eat after it.’

’Come with me then,’ said the sparrow, ’and you shall soon have that too.’ So she took him to a baker’s shop, and pecked at two rolls that lay in the window, till they fell down: and as the dog still wished for more, she took him to another shop and pecked down some more for him. When that was eaten, the sparrow asked him whether he had had enough now.

’Yes,’ said he; ’and now let us take a walk a little way out of the town.’ So they both went out upon the high road; but as the weather was warm, they had not gone far before the dog said, ’I am very much tired–I should like to take a nap.’

’Very well,’ answered the sparrow, ’do so, and in the meantime I will perch upon that bush.’ So the dog stretched himself out on the road, and fell fast asleep. Whilst he slept, there came by a carter with a cart drawn by three horses, and loaded with two casks of wine.

The sparrow, seeing that the carter did not turn out of the way, but would go on in the track in which the dog lay, so as to drive over him, called out, ’Stop! stop! Mr Carter, or it shall be the worse for you.’

But the carter, grumbling to himself, ’You make it the worse for me, indeed! what can you do?’ cracked his whip, and drove his cart over the poor dog, so that the wheels crushed him to death.

’There,’ cried the sparrow, ’thou cruel villain, thou hast killed my friend the dog. Now mind what I say. This deed of thine shall cost thee all thou art worth.’

’Do your worst, and welcome,’ said the brute, ’what harm can you do me?’ and passed on. But the sparrow crept under the tilt of the cart, and pecked at the bung of one of the casks till she loosened it; and than all the wine ran out, without the carter seeing it.

At last he looked round, and saw that the cart was dripping, and the cask quite empty.

’What an unlucky wretch I am!’ cried he.

’Not wretch enough yet!’ said the sparrow, as she alighted upon the head of one of the horses, and pecked at him till he reared up and kicked. When the carter saw this, he drew out his hatchet and aimed a blow at the sparrow, meaning to kill her; but she flew away, and the blow fell upon the poor horse’s head with such force, that he fell down dead.

’Unlucky wretch that I am!’ cried he.

’Not wretch enough yet!’ said the sparrow. And as the carter went on with the other two horses, she again crept under the tilt of the cart, and pecked out the bung of the second cask, so that all the wine ran out.

When the carter saw this, he again cried out, ’Miserable wretch that I am!’

But the sparrow answered, ’Not wretch enough yet!’ and perched on the head of the second horse, and pecked at him too. The carter ran up and struck at her again with his hatchet; but away she flew, and the blow fell upon the second horse and killed him on the spot.

’Unlucky wretch that I am!’ said he.

’Not wretch enough yet!’ said the sparrow; and perching upon the third horse, she began to peck him too.

The carter was mad with fury; and without looking about him, or caring what he was about, struck again at the sparrow; but killed his third horse as he done the other two. ’Alas! miserable wretch that I am!’ cried he.

’Not wretch enough yet!’ answered the sparrow as she flew away; ’now will I plague and punish thee at thy own house.’

The carter was forced at last to leave his cart behind him, and to go home overflowing with rage and vexation. ’Alas!’ said he to his wife, ’what ill luck has befallen me! –my wine is all spilt, and my horses all three dead.’

’Alas! husband,’ replied she, ’and a wicked bird has come into the house, and has brought with her all the birds in the world, I am sure, and they have fallen upon our corn in the loft, and are eating it up at such a rate!’ Away ran the husband upstairs, and saw thousands of birds sitting upon the floor eating up his corn, with the sparrow in the midst of them.

’Unlucky wretch that I am!’ cried the carter; for he saw that the corn was almost all gone.

’Not wretch enough yet!’ said the sparrow; ’thy cruelty shall cost thee they life yet!’ and away she flew.

The carter seeing that he had thus lost all that he had, went down into his kitchen; and was still not sorry for what he had done, but sat himself angrily and sulkily in the chimney corner.

But the sparrow sat on the outside of the window, and cried ’Carter! thy cruelty shall cost thee thy life!’ With that he jumped up in a rage, seized his hatchet, and threw it at the sparrow; but it missed her, and only broke the window.

The sparrow now hopped in, perched upon the window- seat, and cried, ’Carter! it shall cost thee thy life!’

Then he became mad and blind with rage, and struck the window-seat with such force that he cleft it in two: and as the sparrow flew from place to place, the carter and his wife were so furious, that they broke all their furniture, glasses, chairs, benches, the table, and at last the walls, without touching the bird at all.

In the end, however, they caught her: and the wife said, ’Shall I kill her at once?’

’No,’ cried he, ’that is letting her off too easily: she shall die a much more cruel death; I will eat her.’

But the sparrow began to flutter about, and stretch out her neck and cried, ’Carter! it shall cost thee thy life yet!’

With that he could wait no longer: so he gave his wife the hatchet, and cried, ’Wife, strike at the bird and kill her in my hand.’

And the wife struck; but she missed her aim, and hit her husband on the head so that he fell down dead, and the sparrow flew quietly home to her nest.

Moral of the Story? I’m going to go with some sort of anti-animal cruelty message since any other moral would suggest you do epic battle with a tiny bird to assuage your pride and that’s just ridiculous.

This review should start with the bald fact that Neil Gaiman may just be the most naturally creative person on the planet. He writes good stories. They’re totally unique, even when he’s retelling something, and they’re all frustratingly inventive.

But, even though his apparently bottomless well of creativity is plenty impressive, that isn’t actually my favorite part of reading Gaiman’s short story collections. Instead, I really enjoyed that oft-skipped part of books: the author’s preface. Because, however interesting the stories themselves are, it’s marvelous to be given the inside story of where they came from, what their original context was, and, in some cases, how pleased the author is (or isn’t) with the outcome. And unsurprisingly, Gaiman is just as good at explanatory notes as he is at stories.

I read Fragile Things first and then Smoke and Mirrors, but I couldn’t say which I liked better. (They both have excellent explanatory notes.) Although they are ostensibly grouped into stories and poems that confirm their titular themes, I still found the overall character of both very similar. Apparently even when you’re as prolific and variable as Gaiman, you still have a cohesive voice that binds together your work. This voice is really only apparent when taking these collections as wholes, though. While you’re reading the stories, each one seems wholly apart from the ones before and after. It’s quite the trick.

All the same, each collection has something to recommend it:

Fragile Things includes fewer homages to H.P. Lovecraft (an omission I appreciated as someone who has yet to discover what, exactly, is inticing in reading about cthulu) and my favorite short story of all time (“Forbidden Brides of the Faceless Slaves in the Secret House of the Night of Dread Desire” is hysterical, creepy, and just the right amount of mocking), so it certainly edges ahead a little bit.

But Smoke and Mirrors caps itself with the most haunting version of the Snow White tale you’ll ever read: “Snow, Glass, Apples.” Gaiman notes that, once you’ve read it, you’ll never be able to look at Snow White the same way again and I’d wager he’s correct. It also features “We Can Get Them For You Wholesale,” which edges carefully from amusing absurdity into bleak reality, and the delightfully English “Chivalry.”

Both collections are a good read, particularly if you’re in the mood for just a taste of Gaiman. (Although, a warning: I went into both just wanting a taste and ending up reading both cover-to-cover including the introductions, so prepare to be sucked in.) While the stories themselves are variable in quality throughout the books, both collections provide numerous short stories that are exemplary of the form. And, as a reader who is trying to build up her short story familiarity, that plus a dash of classic Gaiman imaginativeness proved just the ticket.

So while I’m not sure “imaginativeness” is actually a word, I’m still quite certain it applies to Gaiman’s stories. And I think he would approve of the word-smithing.

I’ve always been struck by how affected we are by books we read (or, more likely, read to us) in our early years. The ones we read ourselves in our remembered childhoods are less surprising; of course they resonated—they were the first books we actually, personally devoured. But the ones I find truly shocking in their emotional and psychological effect are the ones we don’t necessarily remember. The ones read to us before we have particularly firm memories of anything, let alone books.

I think fairy tales often fall into this category since they are so commonly (and strangely, considering much of their content) read to children. There’s plenty of opportunity for subconscious internalization with stories like these, but even I didn’t know how much until some recent chance book encounters.

A few months ago, it was Oscar Wilde’s The Happy Prince. Being so young and then forgetting about it for so many years, I didn’t even know it was Oscar Wilde, as in THE Oscar Wilde, not just some authorial Oscar Wilde who wrote one children’s book and disappeared from the annals of bibliography. Rather than focusing on the author, I found myself I remembering the story mostly for the sparrow and some beautiful illustrations by an illustrator who has evidently disappeared from the annals of bibliography.

This week, this phenomenon of forgotten, but beloved, childhood fairy tales came in the form of a recommended book on Amazon. It was Bony-Legs by Joanna Cole. I’m not sure how popular this book actually was, but the minute I saw the cover, I had to grin. I adored this book and its vaguely Eastern European illustrations. It’s not a particularly pleasant story, but the house with chicken feet and the magical properties of the heroine’s comb stayed with me for years, even as I couldn’t remember what story they came from.

I know I got a healthy helping of this particular genre in my youth, but I am always surprised by ones I loved but forgot somewhere in between age 6 and 26. And, every time this happens—every single time—their resonance shocks me. I may have forgotten them for years, but the minute they are presented to me again, my brain positively floods with positive emotion. These were my favorites and I would read them again in a heartbeat. Not to mention read them to any nearby tiny children!

I’d love to hear from you all with your forgotten childhood favorite fairy tales. Even if you can’t remember titles or authors, I’ll bet you can remember snippets that captured your imagination for all these years. Chime in below!

Also, since we’ve been having weekly issues with the linky for Fairy Tale Friday, just comment below with your Fairy Tale Friday posts and people can click over to your site from there! Hopefully that’s cool with all involved.

Cruickshank himself is an architectural historian, which lends an interesting lens to an already-scintillating topic. The overarching argument of the book is that the sex industry was pervasive and vital to London as an economic hub of eighteenth-century Europe, but, because of his training, Cruickshank is able to take the book beyond basic history and standard “my topic is important and unique!” statements. Throughout the book, he includes fascinating examples of the ways in which the architecture of London was shaped by London’s prominent sex industry and how what remains of Georgian architecture in contemporary London can provide us with vital clues about the city’s often sordid past.

Apart from his architectural arguments, however, the book is also a surprisingly serious discussion of prostitution in eighteenth-century London. A book called London’s Sinful Secrets could easily veer off into sensationalism, but Cruickshank instead produces a restrained, tightly-woven, and well-researched book that delves into all the details without ever being lewd.

The book is also a perfectly horrifying account of woman’s position in London in the 1700s. Perhaps unfortunately, because Cruickshank isn’t really a feminist historian (although that would have no doubt produced opposite biases), so he doesn’t touch too heavily on this bald fact. He does discuss why a girl might become a prostitute, but, like contemporary men at the time, he looks mostly into how girls were tricked into prostitution and doesn’t spend nearly as much time looking at all the women who made the active decision to become sex workers. These women had agency, probably more than most women at the time, and, while I know source material is scarce, it would fascinating to explore their decisions more closely.

On the whole, it was a great read, but one requiring a serious time commitment! And it gave me one more example of the amazing serendipitous possibilities at libraries.

Adapted from Joseph Jacob’s English Fairy Tales.

Once upon a time there was a boy named Jack who was sent out into the world by his parents with a large cursed cake and a golden snuff box, the former from his mother who was both sad and angry to see him leave and the latter from his father who told him never to open the golden snuff box unless he be on the verge of death.

Jack wandered very far and ate his way through the entire cursed cake before arriving one day at a tavern. Having run out of cursed cake, Jack was quite hungry and was pleased to make the acquaintance of the pretty barmaid. The pretty barmaid fed him heartily and, over ale and pie, they fell madly in love.

Unfortunately for Jack, the pretty barmaid was no free agent and, as most girls in such stories do, had a disagreeable father. The disagreeable father did not appreciate penniless Jack making eyes at his pretty daughter and told Jack that, if he wanted her hand, he should make a lake and the largest warship in the world appear outside the tavern by morning. If he failed in this, he would lose not only the girl, but his life.

Jack decided this was a close to death as he was like to get and whipped out his father’s golden snuff box. The moment he tipped open the lid, three little red men popped out and asked him what they could do to help. He told them he needed a lake and a big warship. “Easy peesy,” said the three little red men and it was done.

The pretty barmaid’s father was terribly impressed and said, for two more tasks (“I want this forest totally cleared and I want a golden castle!”), Jack could indeed wed the girl. Obligingly, the three little red men did all that was asked of them and Jack took all the credit, impressing both barmaid and her father.

So Jack and the barmaid were married and the barmaid’s father, now a wealthy squire with a lake, the biggest warship in the world, no forest, and a golden castle, decided to hold a hunt. While he and Jack were away, a wicked valet stole Jack’s golden snuff box and discovered the three little red men.

“What can we do you for?” asked the three little red men.

“I want this castle all for my own, far away from here!” said the wicked valet.

“Easy peesy,” said the three little red men, and they whisked away the golden castle and the wicked valet.

Jack and the barmaid’s father returned to find it gone. Wrathful, the father ordered Jack to fetch his castle back again for he would never see the pretty barmaid (aka: his wife) again. Jack, downcast but very much desirous to set things right, set out immediately.

As any sensible person would do when it search of a magical castle, Jack turned to the animal kingdom for help. First, he tried the King of the Mice. The King of the Mice would only help if he could have use of the castle once it was found. Jack said fine and the King of the Mice sent out all the mice to find the castle. They all came back empty-handed, so Jack went on to the King of the Frogs, accompanied by one particularly stalwart mouse hell-bent on helping find the castle.

The King of the Frogs requested the same as the King of the Mice and, when it was agreed that he would have use of the castle once it was found, he sent out all the frogs to find it. But they also came back empty-handed and Jack, the mouse, and an equally-stalwart frog were forced to move onto the King of the Eagles.

The King of the Eagles wanted to use the castle, too. “Yes, fine, good!” said Jack, somewhat impatiently, as his clever plan to use the animals wasn’t really panning out. So the King of the Eagles sent out all the eagles to find the castle.

To everyone’s surprise, one particularly stalwart eagle returned quickly with word of a golden castle nearby. Jack, the mouse, the frog, and the eagle all hastened to the castle right away. It was indeed the right golden castle and there was much rejoicing.

“But how will we recover the golden snuff box?” Jack bemoaned. “Without it, we’re sunk!”

“I’m on it,” said the stalwart mouse and scurried, unseen, into the castle, returning with the re-stolen golden snuff box some time later, guards hot on his heels.

“Let’s get out of here!” cried the frog and Jack, neither of whom fancied being caught. The eagle shouted for them to get on his back and the three non-fowl quickly hopped aboard and within minutes they were airborne, hastening back to the King of the Eagles’ domain.

“That was a close one,” said the frog, who was not quite so stalwart as he seemed. “Now where’s that bloody snuff box?”

“Here,” said the mouse, and made to pass it to Jack. But the eagle interrupted and said he should have the box since he was the one who found the castle and the carried them all to safety. Jack disagreed, saying it was his box in the first place. And the mouse wanted it to be his since he had brought it out of the castle safely. And the frog threw his hat in the ring, too, just because he felt he had braved just as much as the rest.

As they quarreled over it, snatching it back and forth, they lost control of it and the golden snuff box went hurtling down into the sea below them.

“Blast!” said Jack. “Now we’re really sunk.”

“This is no time for puns!” said the eagle grimly, although Jack hadn’t meant to be funny, or punny, at all and was truly chagrined.

“Not to worry,” said the frog suddenly. “I’m on it.” And, so saying, the frog leaped from the eagle’s back and swan-dived quite elegantly into the sea after the box. Three days later, he resurfaced, gripping the box and there was much rejoicing.

Box now firmly in Jack’s pocket where it could not conceivably be stolen, dropped, argued over, or otherwise lost, the four arrived back at the King of the Eagle’s home. Jack immediately opened the box and the three, slightly damp, little red men came out and asked what they could for him.

“Well, bring back the castle, of course!”

Wearily, the three little red men said they’d get right to it and hastened away. Shortly thereafter, the castle arrived at the King of the Eagles. Pointing out that they had never agreed that the castle would be at any of the Kings’ disposal forever, Jack had the castle stay one day and one night with each animal King before hurrying home to the barmaid and her irascible father.

The father, first ascertaining that Jack had somehow managed to bring back the correct golden castle, finally relented, clapped Jack on the back, and allowed him to see his wife. The pretty barmaid immediately ran out to greet Jack and presented him with his firstborn son who had been born whilst Jack was away adventuring.

Jack, exhausted by his adventures and journeying, was perhaps a little less than enthusiastic about dealing with a newborn, a reaction which may have shown more than he intended, which in turn may have offended his wife more than he knew, which may have resulted in a number of years shrewishness from the wife, which may have led to a less than “happily ever after” ending, but that, surely, is another story for another time.

The moral of this one? Never accept baked goods from your embittered mother. Also be careful where you leave your enchanted, golden possessions. And don’t trust wicked valets.

For my post this week, I’d like to take a moment to appreciate fairy tale illustrations. In my humble opinion, they are often the most beautiful and evocative illustrations provided in books, perhaps because of the inherent magic and creativity of the stories themselves.

There about a million wonderful illustrators I could call out, but I’m just going to touch on my favorites and hopefully you all will chime in with yours!

Arthur Rackham is probably the most famous fairy tale illustrator, giving us many instantly-recognizable images of fairies throughout his career:

I love the fluidity and denseness of his images, as well as how he associates fairies and magical creatures so firmly with nature. By tying them to the natural world, from the trees to the earth to other animals, Rackham wonderfully suggests the ancientness of magic and fairies, apparently remarking on how they were, like the earth and the stones beneath us, here before humans and may will outlast us.

More recently, Charles Vess has taken up the Rackham flag, notably in Stardust, but elsewhere, too:

Vess’ work seems to me slightly more graphic and comic, as if he’s simplified Rackham’s lines and colored in the remaining cells like an old-fashioned animator. The work is still rich, but lacks the detail of Rackham’s fine lines. (Have I mentioned I’m a secret Victorian?)

To that end, Aubrey Beardsley must be next on my list. He, in my opinion, brings out the darker side of fairy tales beautifully with his black-and-white (okay, mainly black and spidery) illustrations:

Lastly, I want to give a shout-out to two illustrators whose illustrations strike me as immediately classic. They look exactly like what, in my mind, classic fairy tale illustration should.

First, Ivan Bilibin, who I just discovered in researching this post:

Second, Warwick Goble, who has a great name and some wonderful illustrations. Here’s just one (there are more here):

I could look at pictures of fairies and fairy tales from the Victorian era pretty much all the live-long day (one more sidebar: if you’re into more stylized fairy tale illustrations, Google Elenore Abbott. She’s completely 1920stastic and does some really lovely, and wholly un-Victorian, illustrations!), so I’ll stop here and ask you for your favorites!

So who is your favorite fairy tale illustrator? And do you have to hand an example?

(And here at the end, I feel I should give a shout out to SurLaLune Fairy Tales which has a phenomenal gallery of illustrations in case you’re interested in seeing more!)

Remember back in the day when you checked a book out of the library and they stamped it so you would know when it’s due?

And remember even before that when you checked a book out of the library, you had to sign the card next to the date?

It’s little touches like these that I miss about modern libraries. In modern libraries, the continuity of readership is snipped before its inception by removing any evidence of past readers from the physical book. You can no longer tell how many others enjoyed a book before you or when the last person was who checked it out, let alone that they had a wonderful name like Florian Van Smoot.

Furthermore, you lose the little thrill of saving a book from deaccessioned doom. I remember in the libraries of my youth, if a book wasn’t checked out for long enough, it was tossed. I always felt excitement when a book I wanted hadn’t been checked out in decades; I felt like I had performed a small feat of salvation for a book which would otherwise have shortly been removed from the shelves.

And, on a more practical level, the lack of date stamps means readers are left with a flimsy scrap of print-out with the date of return on it. This little piece of ephemera inevitably disappears and is lost and then, much to my scatterbrained dismay, I find myself with an overdue book whose return date I can’t and didn’t remember. The slip has fled, the bird has flown, and I owe the library $1.25. Gosh, it was easier when the date of return was just in the book!

On the bright side, these practices have not entirely disappeared and seem to still be the purview of many academic libraries. Also, there are some advances in modern libraries I can’t fail to appreciate, namely the rise of the online catalogue and the demise of the card catalogue, a delightfully arcane and charming piece of library “technology” who I appreciate on a more aesthetic level than a practical one.

But I still miss those old check-out cards as both a connection to readers-past and a useful reminder for us so lost in a good book, we can’t remember when to give it back.