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Summary
Summary
Shaun Tan follows The Arrival with a collection of off-the-wall tales combined with his genius illustrations in a unique hybrid format that will build on our current success.An exchange student who's really an alien, a secret room that becomes the perfect place for a quick escape, a typical tale of grandfatherly exaggeration that is actually even more bizarre than he says... These are the odd details of everyday life that grow and take on an incredible life of their own in tales and illustrations that Shaun Tan's many fans will love.
Author Notes
Shaun Tan was born in 1974 in Fremantle, Western Australia. He is an artist, writer, and film maker. In 2006, his wordless graphic novel The Arrival won the "Book of the Year" prize as part of the New South Wales Premier's Literary Awards. The same book won the Children's Book Council of Australia "Picture Book of the Year" award in 2007 and the Western Australian Premier's Book Awards Premier's Prize in 2006. For his career contribution to "children's and young adult literature in the broadest sense" Tan won the 2011 Astrid Lindgren Memorial Award from the Swedish Arts Council, the biggest prize in children's literature. In 2015 his title, Rules of Summer, was one of four books selected for the United States Board of Books for Young People list of Outstanding International Books for children and young adults. His book, The Singing Bones, won the 2015 Aurealis Awards for Best Graphic Novel/Illustrated work. He had two books published in 2018, Cicada. and Tales From the Inner City
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (8)
Horn Book Review
(Middle School) Tan follows his wordless epic The Arrival with a collection of -- stories? fables? dreams? Take "Eric," a foreign exchange student who likes to sleep in the pantry, asks peculiar questions, and disappears "with little more than a wave and a polite good-bye," leaving behind a magical gift. Or "Our Expedition," in which two brothers, arguing about the cut-off edge of a street map, follow it to see what's there -- or isn't. While many of the selections don't get much beyond their premises, and Tan's low-key expository prose offers few rewards of its own, the real story here is the pictures. Some display the somber polish of the Arrival vignettes, others are full-color, full-page fantasies; each one has more than enough power to seduce the browser into looking closely into its mysteries. From HORN BOOK, (c) Copyright 2010. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
School Library Journal Review
Gr 4 Up-For those who loved Tan's surreal and evocative The Arrival (Scholastic, 2007), the Australian author follows up with a brilliant collection of illustrated vignettes. Fifteen short texts, each accompanied by Tan's signature black-and-white and full-color artwork, take the mundane world and transform it into a place of magical wonders. In the opening tale, a water buffalo sits in an abandoned suburban lot, offering silent but wise direction to those youngsters who are patient enough to follow his guidance. In "Eric," the title character (a tiny, leaflike creature) visits a family as a foreign exchange student and fascinates them with his sense of wonder. His parting gift to the family is sure to warm even the coldest heart. Other stories describe the fate of unread poetry, the presence of silent stick figures who roam the suburbs, or an expedition to the edge of a map. In spirit, these stories are something akin to the wit and wisdom of Shel Silverstein. The surrealist art of Rene Magritte also comes to mind, but perhaps Chris Van Allsburg's beloved The Mysteries of Harris Burdick (Houghton, 1984) comes closest as a comparable work. While somewhat hard to place due to the unusual nature of the piece, this book is a small treasure, or, rather, a collection of treasures.-Douglas P. Davey, Halton Hills Public Library, Ontario, Canada (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Library Journal Review
Chris Van Allsburg meets The Outer Limits. Fifteen tales illustrate how ordinary suburban existence can take a turn toward the fantastical. Tan, the author of the wordless graphic novel The Arrival (Scholastic, 2007), here combines his artistic gifts with short, first-person stories that send the mind off in magical directions. Whether following the sage advice of a neighborhood water buffalo or falling off the end of the world, the narrators in these stories invite the reader to ask, "What happens next?" Why It Is for Us: Reminiscent of Van Allsburg's The Mysteries of Harris Burdick (1984), this is a fun (if sometimes bittersweet) collection for those of us who long for a little dose of the extraordinary in the midst of everyday life.-Angelina Benedetti, King Cty. Lib. Syst., WA (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Publisher's Weekly Review
The term "suburbia" may conjure visions of vast and generic sameness, but in his hypnotic collection of 15 short stories and meditations, Tan does for the sprawling landscape what he did for the metropolis in The Arrival. Here, the emotional can be manifest physically (in "No Other Country," a down-on-its-luck family finds literal refuge in a magic "inner courtyard" in their attic) and the familiar is twisted unsettlingly (a reindeer appears annually in "The Nameless Holiday" to take away objects "so loved that their loss will be felt like the snapping of a cord to the heart"). Tan's mixed-media art draws readers into the strange settings, a la The Mysteries of Harris Burdick. In "Alert but Not Armed," a double-page spread heightens the ludicrousness of a nation in which every house has a government missile in the yard; they tower over the neighborhood, painted in cheery pastels and used as birdhouses ("If there are families in faraway countries with their own backyard missiles, armed and pointed back at us, we would hope that they too have found a much better use for them," the story ends). Ideas and imagery both beautiful and disturbing will linger. Ages 12-up. (Feb.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
*Starred Review* After teaching the graphic format a thing or two about its own potential for elegance with The Arrival (2007), Tan follows up with this array of 15 extraordinary illustrated tales. But here is an achievement in diametric opposition to his silent masterpiece, as Tan combines spare words and weirdly dazzling images in styles ranging from painting to doodles to collage to create a unity that holds complexities of emotion seldom found in even the most mature works. The story of a water buffalo who sits in a vacant lot mysteriously pointing children in the right direction is whimsical but also ominous. The centerpiece, Grandpa's Story, recalling a ceremonial marriage journey and the unnameable perils faced therein, captures a tone of aching melancholy and longing, but also, ultimately, a sense of deep, deep happiness. And the eerie Stick Figures is both a poignant and rather disturbing narrative that plays out in the washed-out daylight of suburban streets where curious, tortured creatures wait at the ends of pathways and behind bus stops. The thoughtful and engaged reader will take from these stories an experience as deep and profound as with anything he or she has ever read.--Karp, Jesse Copyright 2008 Booklist
New York Review of Books Review
THE proper way to salute the genius of Shaun Tan would be to draw a picture, or really three pictures. The first image would be of bursting fireworks, for the awe his illustrations inspire. You don't have to look past the cover of "Tales From Outer Suburbia," which shows a figure in one of those old-time deep-sea-diving helmets standing on an otherwise ordinary street, to know what I mean. You almost can't stop yourself from saying, "Wow." Or at least I couldn't. The second image would be a sorcerer's hat, to represent the otherworldly magic that Tan sprinkles liberally into his work. He knows just how to drop the extraordinary into the ordinary, creating his own mystical, serendipitous universe. Finally, there would be a handkerchief, to represent the surprisingly powerful melancholy and longing that both his stories and his pictures evoke. And all these pictures, like Tan's, would combine unerring detail, abundant visual wit and a placid impressionism conveying the feeling of memory. A 35-year-old writer and illustrator from Australia, Tan has received many awards for his work, including, I learned from Wikipedia, one from the L. Ron Hubbard Illustrators of the Future contest. His work is weird, all right, but the best kind of weird - the kind that welcomes you in. "Tales From Outer Suburbia" is a collection of illustrated stories about, among other things, a water buffalo who hangs out in a vacant lot and gives directions to local kids; stick figures who get beaten up by neighborhood bullies; a giant dugong that appears on someone's lawn; and the lonely fate of all the unread poetry that people write - it joins a vast "river of waste that flows out of suburbia" This last story, by the way, is presented as a flotilla of random scraps that "through a strange force of attraction" come together, the word "naturally" meeting the phrase "many poems are" and then "immediately destroyed." For all his talents as an illustrator, Tan also writes extremely well. Each story is an exercise in narrative concision - the characters are vivid and original, the plots blend logic and whimsy, and the endings always pay off, if never quite the way you expect. My favorite, "Our Expedition," is about a pair of brothers who disagree over what lies beyond the edge of a map their father keeps in his car. One boy is convinced that the world simply ends, as the map implies, while the other insists that this would be impossible. They make a bet and head out on a long trek to see for themselves. It is a wonderful extrapolation of a youthful argument, and it resolves with a stunning, surrealistic illustration across two pages. Tan's earlier book "The Arrival" (2007) contained no words at all: It begins with a father leaving his family to seek opportunities in a strange land, which Tan peppers with funky nonhuman creatures, bizarre urban dwellings and food that looks like nothing you've ever seen or considered eating. These flourishes of absurdity give the reader a direct experience of the extreme culture shock experienced by the immigrant, of how deeply unsettling a new world must be. In that sense, "The Arrival" feels much truer than a dutifully realistic account could. Which might explain why, at the end, I actually cried. Not a lot, not like a baby. But more than I expected a wordless picture book filled with sci-fi-like critters could ever make me. Tan's work overflows with human warmth and childlike wonder. But it also makes a perfect adult bedtime story, a little something to shake loose your imagination from the moors of reality right before your own dreams kick in. Tan's surreal tales feature a water buffalo, stick figures and rivers of unread poetry. Hugo Lindgren is the editorial director of New York magazine.
Guardian Review
This may be the most beautiful book you'll see all year. It's an illustrated collection of stories set in the Australian suburbs, about how the fantastic keeps erupting into the most mundane daily lives. Once you've read it, you may find yourself feeling as though an exchange student from another planet has dropped by and left a glowing matchbox garden in your kitchen cupboard. Its creator, Shaun Tan, is best known for The Arrival, a wordless graphic novel about the experience of migration that remains essential reading. But he has also created wonderful picture books for young readers, including The Red Tree . Tales from Outer Suburbia stands somewhere between the two. It's probably not for younger children; though the stories are short, its knowing sense of humour may be better suited to more sophisticated readers - including adults. The tone is set in the very first story, "The Water Buffalo", in which a water buffalo silently points children in the direction of whatever they're seeking ( above ). Tan describes this as if it's the most normal thing in the world; he makes the outlandish so plausible, it seems almost commonplace. "It's funny how these days, when every household has its own intercontinental ballistic missile, you hardly even think about them." So begins another tale, only four pages long, in which an entire alternative world is imagined, much like our own but skewed. Here, ordinary people are given missiles to look after, and decide to decorate them with butterfly stencils and Christmas lights, turning them into dog kennels and pizza ovens. Whimsical it may be, but it's impossible not to feel a shiver of excitement as you turn the page to see a candy-coloured vision of suburban lawns, each with its own ICBM, like some Norman Rockwell painting from a parallel universe. Even when Tan's visions are perfectly possible, his characters' imaginations give them heightened significance. In "Broken Toys", two children see a deep-sea diver on a summer street. At first, they think he's insane; then that he's an astronaut; then they try to use him to provoke a surly neighbour. Finally, he prompts a quiet epiphany - something this book could spark in its readers. Tan's greatest asset is his artwork. Some of his images look like Japanese woodcut prints, others like Renaissance frescoes or sepia photographs. One piece - about how discarded poems turn into enormous balls of paper, floating weightless above the city - is told entirely in scrap fragments. The variety and ingenuity recall the work of Dave McKean or Emily Gravett. There's something very playful about it, yet it has the deep seriousness of all the best play. The writing is not quite so consistent: some stories feel more fully realised than others. But all are built around arresting central images. Perhaps the best comes in "Our Expedition", in which two children venture to the edge of their suburb, prompted by curiosity as to why the map ends abruptly on a particular page - only to discover that the streets themselves end there; in fact, the whole world ends there. They sit in the middle of the road, legs hanging over the edge, and look out over a great abyss. It's an extraordinary image, surprising yet inevitable, resonant with all sorts of metaphorical possibilities. And yet it's beautifully grounded in the rivalry of siblinghood, in which winning or losing an argument with your brother counts for more than discovering that the world really is flat after all. That kind of moment is what Shaun Tan excels at, and that's what makes this collection so charming, and so memorable. SF Said's Varjak Paw books are published by David Fickling. Caption: article-childrenlong.1 "It's funny how these days, when every household has its own intercontinental ballistic missile, you hardly even think about them." So begins another tale, only four pages long, in which an entire alternative world is imagined, much like our own but skewed. Here, ordinary people are given missiles to look after, and decide to decorate them with butterfly stencils and Christmas lights, turning them into dog kennels and pizza ovens. Whimsical it may be, but it's impossible not to feel a shiver of excitement as you turn the page to see a candy-coloured vision of suburban lawns, each with its own ICBM, like some Norman Rockwell painting from a parallel universe. Even when [Shaun Tan]'s visions are perfectly possible, his characters' imaginations give them heightened significance. In "Broken Toys", two children see a deep-sea diver on a summer street. At first, they think he's insane; then that he's an astronaut; then they try to use him to provoke a surly neighbour. Finally, he prompts a quiet epiphany - something this book could spark in its readers. - SF Said.
Kirkus Review
Nameless, ageless, genderless first-person narrators bring readers into offbeat yet recognizable places in this sparkling, mind-bending collection from the creator of The Arrival (2007). In "Our Expedition," siblings set out to see if anything exists beyond the end of their father's road map. Dysfunctional parents and the child they ignore are brought together when a dugong appears in their front lawn in "Undertow." With these and other short stories, Tan brings magic to places where magic rarely happens in books. These are fairy tales for modern times, in which there is valor, love and wisdomwithout dragons and castles. The accompanying illustrations vary widely in style, medium and palette, reflecting both the events and the mood of each story, while hewing to a unifying sense of the surreal. In some stories, Tan has replaced the sparse, atmospheric text entirely with pictures, leaving the reader to absorb the stunning visual impact of his imagined universe. Several poemsand a short storytold via collage are included. Graphic-novel and text enthusiasts alike will be drawn to this breathtaking combination of words and images. (Graphic anthology. 12 up) Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Stick Figures If they are standing in the middle of the street, it's easy enough to drive around them, as you would a piece of cardboard or a dead cat. Turning your sprinklers on will discourage them from hanging around the front of your house; loud music and smoke from barbecues will also keep them away. They are not a problem, just another part of the suburban landscape, their brittle legs moving as slowly as clouds. They have always been here, since before anyone remembers, since before the bush was cleared and all the houses were built. Adults pay them little attention. Young children sometimes dress them in old clothes and hats as if they were dolls or scarecrows, and are always scolded by parents, whose reasons are unclear. 'Just don't,' they say sternly. Some older boys take great delight in beating them with baseball bats, golf clubs, or whatever is at hand, including the victim's own snapped-off limbs. With careful aim a good strike will send the head -- a faceless clod of earth -- flying high into the air. The body remains passively upright until smashed to splinters between heels and asphalt. This can go on for hours, depending on how many the boys can find. But eventually it stops being amusing. It becomes boring, somehow enraging, the way they just stand there and take it. What are they? Why are they here? What do they want? Whack! Whack! Whack! The only response is the sound of dead branches falling from old trees on windless evenings, and random holes appearing in front lawns, dark sockets where clods of earth have been removed during the night. And sure enough there they are again, standing by fences and driveways, in alleyways and parks, silent sentinels. Are they here for a reason? It's impossible to know, but if you stop and stare at them for a long time, you can imagine that they too might be searching for answers, for some kind of meaning. It's as if they take all our questions and offer them straight back: Who are you? Why are you here? What do you want? The Nameless holiday The nameless holiday happens once a year, usually around late August, sometimes October. It is always anticipated by children and adults alike with mixed emotion: it's not exactly festive, but still a celebration of sorts, the origin of which has been long forgotten. All that is known are the familiar rituals: the laying out of one's most prized possessions on the bedroom floor; then choosing one special object -- exactly the right one -- and carrying it carefully up a ladder to the roof and leaving it under the TV aerial (already decorated with small shiny things such as chocolate wrappers, old CDs, and the tops off tubs of yoghurt, licked clean and threaded with string, tied with special slip-knots). Then there is the traditional midnight picnic in the backyard, front lawn, or any place with a good view of one's own roof -- across the street if necessary, which is why families sometimes gather by the roadside on blankets. Here are born fond memories of freshly baked gingerbread crows, hot pomegranate juice as tart as a knife and small plastic whistles, inaudible to the ears of both humans and dogs. Not to mention all that excited chatter and giggling, all that polite shushing, everyone struggling to observe the convention of silence. Those who stay awake long enough are rewarded by a momentary sound that never fails to draw a sharp intake of breath -- the delicate tapping of hoofs descending on roof tiles. It is always so startling, so hard to believe at first, like a waking dream or a rumour made solid. But sure enough, there he is, the reindeer with no name: enormous, blind as a bat, sniffing under the TV aerial with infinite animal patience. He always knows exactly which objects are so loved that their loss will be felt like the snapping of a cord to the heart, and it's only these that he nudges tenderly until they become hooked onto his great antlers. The rest he leaves alone, leaping gracefully back up into the cool darkness. What a remarkable, unnameable feeling it is, right at the moment of his leaping: something like sadness and regret, of suddenly wanting your gift back and held tight to your chest, knowing that you will certainly never see it again. And then there is the letting go as your muscles release, your lungs exhale, and the backwash of longing leaves behind this one image on the shore of memory: a huge reindeer on your roof, bowing down. Excerpted from Tales from Outer Suburbia by Shaun Tan All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
