In an effort to introduce “zing, bounce, vitality into traditional kids’ poetry,” Lee wrote Alligator Pie, a book of silly, joyful, charming nursery rhymes that is today a landmark of Canadian literature. Started when he wanted bedtime poems for his little girl but couldn’t think of any suitable ones, Alligator Pie has reportedly sold over half a million copies since its publication in 1974 and cemented Lee’s reputation as “Canada’s Father Goose.” Lee went on to write other popular kids’ books—indeed, he’s a prolific, celebrated former poet laureate of Toronto whose collections include the Governor General’s Literary Award–winning Civil Elegies. But Alligator Pie pulled off a feat realized by few authors: it has lasted. My father read it to me countless times at bedtime, and I bought my family copy shortly after my first child was born, a “collector’s edition” released in 2001 (alas, it is too tattered now to interest any collector).
This year marks Alligator Pie’s fiftieth anniversary. The reason for its longevity is simple: it tunes young ears to the music of language. Full of jaunty linguistic sallies—the title poem blasts open with: “Alligator Pie, Alligator Pie, / If I don’t get some I think I’m gonna die!”—Lee’s book is one of the few that can actually inspire a lifelong love of poetry. And shouldn’t that be the goal of children’s verse?
I have to wonder now why I keep returning to this book. Beyond the spectacle of the murders—beyond the melodrama of Malan’s tortured relationship with his country, beyond the unanswerable question of what it means to be white—is a problem that continues to captivate me: the problem of love under apartheid, which is now the problem of love in the ruins of apartheid.
When I quit my magazine job, I decided to try my hand as an artist. It wasn’t entirely abrupt: In my work, I always found it satisfying telling stories in photographs and graphics and drawings, and in spare moments — a whim at first — I picked up a paintbrush to try making images myself. When I left my job, I began to paint more seriously. That was the beginning of my torment: I just wasn’t very good.
Fans of Bardugo’s work will find “The Familiar” a thrilling addition to her canon about oppression and liberation, and anyone interested in this historical period and the themes she’s exploring will find it engrossing. This is a story about the suffering that results when the majority imposes its religion on everyone else, using coercive authority to control the very identities of all. That, alone, makes “The Familiar” an essential read.
Gripping, painful, funny, horrifying, this is multi-level entertainment, a consummate performance to the last. Is there pause for thought when Jim says “white people love feeling guilty”, having told us on the first page that “it always pays to give white folks what they want”? Yes, after decades as a writer’s writer, Everett is finally hitting the big time, but somehow you doubt he’ll be giving anyone the chance to feel too cosy about that.