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Summary
Summary
This sly, hilarious tale, The Skunk, brings together luminaries Mac Barnett and Patrick McDonnell for the first time.
An Entertainment Weekly Best Kids' Book
When a skunk first appears in the tuxedoed man's doorway, it's a strange but possibly harmless occurrence. But then the man finds the skunk following him, and the unlikely pair embark on an increasingly frantic chase through the city, from the streets to the opera house to the fairground. What does the skunk want? It's not clear--but soon the man has bought a new house in a new neighborhood to escape the little creature's attention, only to find himself missing something...
Author Notes
Mac Barnett is a New York Times bestselling author of books for children. His picture book Extra Yarn won a 2013 Caldecott Honor and the 2012 Boston Globe-Horn Book Award. He also writes the Brixton Brothers series of mystery novels. He co-wrote Battle Bunny with Jon Scieszka which was a New York Times bestseller. Barnettt's book, Sam and Dave Dig a Hole, illustrated by Jon Klassen, made the New York Times bestseller list in October 2014. It also won an E.B. White Read-Aloud Award 2015 in the picture book category.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (6)
Publisher's Weekly Review
An impassive, red-nosed skunk-another inimitable McDonnell (A Perfectly Messed-Up Story) critter-appears on a man's doorstep. Why is it there? What does it want? And why does it keep following him no matter where he goes-even into the opera house and onto the head of an adjacent opera buff? No answer is forthcoming, so the man does what anyone in his desperate situation would do: he starts a new life in a different part of the city. And all is merry and bright (in fact, McDonnell's palette turns from almost monochromatic to kindergarten primary) until... well, let's just say it's possible to be emotionally as well as literally skunked. Barnett's (Battle Bunny) pokerfaced narration gives off a deliciously Hitchockian air of high style and deep-seated dread ("I'll admit that I began to panic. I ran past the wharf and turned down an alley. It was a dead end"), and the collaborators' refusal to wrap up with a cuddly reconciliation results in a story that speaks to the urbane existentialist/absurdist lurking in the heart of every reader. Ages 4-8. Author's agent: Steven Malk, Writers House. Illustrator's agent: Henry Dunow, Dunow, Carlson & Lerner. (Apr.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Horn Book Review
A skunk shows up on the narrators doorstep and begins to tail him. Try as he might, our narrator just cant seem to shake the skunk -- When I sped up, the skunk sped up. When I slowed, the skunk slowed -- despite dodging in and out of an opera house, a graveyard, and a carnival. Ultimately, however, our narrator does lose his unwelcome shadow, crawling down a manhole in an alley and establishing a new life in a new house in a new part of the city (the heretofore low-toned palette now bursting with blue and yellow). Its not long, though, before he realizes everythings not what its cracked up to be, and he leaves his own party to go off in search of the skunk, vowing to keep an eye on him to make sure he does not follow me again. McDonnells graceful and simple cartoonlike illustrations mitigate the notes of paranoia and obsession in Barnetts deadpan text, particularly in their rendering of the posture, gestures, and expressions of the main characters. Barnett has had the good fortune to collaborate with illustrators -- Rex, Santat, Klassen -- who share his oftentimes offbeat sense of humor; his pairing with McDonnell seems as natural as any of them. jonathan hunt (c) Copyright 2015. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Booklist Review
How do you shake a skunk from your tail? Such is one man's quandary after finding a skunk on his doorstep one evening. Next thing he knows, it's peering around corners, following him in a taxi, and giving flat-out chase through a carnival. Though told with the seriousness of a thriller, the red-nosed skunk's pursuit of the man similarly clad in a black and white tux with red bow tie will tickle readers with its escalating absurdity. Eventually, the man moves to a new, skunk-free neighborhood, and the book's noir color palette (gray, black, white, splashes of red) blossoms with cheerful primaries until the man is overtaken by the need to know where the skunk is. So back he goes into the noirish night, only this time the tables have turned. Caldecott honorees Barnett and McDonnell (Extra Yarn, 2012, and Me . . . Jane, 2011, respectively) combine their considerable talents in this dark comedy. With more silliness than suspense, the story features antics that even sensitive children will love, and older readers will appreciate the role reversal at the book's end.--Smith, Julia Copyright 2015 Booklist
New York Review of Books Review
DESPITE THE EFFORTS of story-time subversives as varied as Jo March, Tom Sawyer, the Mad Hatter, Madeline, Eloise, Ramona Quimby, the Cat in the Hat, Willy Wonka and the Stinky Cheese Man, namby-pambyism has for generations been a scourge of children's literature. The impulse to force-feed kids the bookish equivalent of steamed spinach is unlikely ever to fade, though our notions about what that should be continue to evolve. But in recent years an opposing virus has also infected the nursery library. You might call it peepee-poo-ism: the anxious, overeager impulse to engage children on what we adults think of as their own terms, lest they believe us uncool - or worse, and more to the point, old. I don't mean to imply that I myself am not always up for a well-turned scatological joke, but I am happy to be reviewing four new picture books that are surprising and subversive in all the best ways, and none of the dumb or easy ones. Is it possible that children's publishing has produced a quartet of classics in a single springtime? Future generations will be the judges of that, but all four books shine with sly spirit, high wit and subtle, non-showy intelligence, and all are crafty enough, as in any good playground design, to leave some wide-open spaces so that readers and listeners can fill in a few blanks for themselves, finding their own rhythms and making their own fun. The parents of the title family in "Meet the Dullards" are true to their surname - wan and dispassionate to an almost perverse degree, except that "perverse" implies some degree of liveliness. The Dullards do have one passion: protecting their three children, Blanda, Borely and Little Dud, from any stimulation whatsoever. The book's author, Sara Pennypacker, tosses them "quite a nasty surprise" on the very first page - the kids are looking at books! Mr. and Mrs. Dullard put a quick stop to that, giving their offspring "some nice blank paper to read instead," then retreat "to discuss the problem in private." Is the neighborhood to blame? "Last fall, remember, some leaves turned color," Mr. Dullard notes. "And now this," he adds, pointing out the window to "an upsetting commotion," which turns out to be a snail crossing the driveway. But moving to a second house is no help, what with scary new dangers such as neighbors who speak in exclamation points and - lurking in one room like the boogeyman in a more conventional spook-house tale - bright yellow wallpaper. With flowers ! "Meet the Dullards" made me laugh out loud, even when reading otherwise silently to myself. Reading it to a 5-year-old might provoke the giggle equivalent of a feedback loop; clearly there is much in this satire of helicopter parenting to which both sides of that divide can relate. I appreciated that Pennypacker resolves her story without forcing Mr. and Mrs. Dullard to embrace spontaneity and imagination and color and all the other things that movies and books always insist make life worth living. (Those things do make life worth living, but it's tiresome to keep hearing about it.) Pennypacker grants the Dullard parents their dignity and integrity, and melancholy too, as does the illustrator, Daniel Salmieri (of "Dragons Love Tacos" fame), who renders the grays in the family wardrobe with richness, texture and maybe even love. The title hero of Jon Agee's "It's Only Stanley" may or may not be a beagle, but he is clearly related to Snoopy, literature's most famous beagle, in spirit if not breed. His story takes place during the course of a single night, as his noisy, increasingly ambitious pursuits keep reawakening his owners, the Wimbledon family, sending groggy dad Walter off in his pajamas to investigate. "It's only Stanley," goes the refrain as Walter reports back to wife and kids. "He's howling at the moon." Or: "It's only Stanley. He fixed the oil tank." Or: " It's only Stanley. He's making catfish stew." The dog's nocturnal banging and clanking seems random, but Agee orchestrates it all toward a glorious, surprising and very funny climax, one in which he wisely decides not to use his words, as they might say in preschool, and lets his pictures take over. Stories with punch lines can grow old; this one, clever and open-ended, will bear repetition, and probably command it. "The Skunk" has an obvious antecedent in Dr. Seuss' "What Was I Scared Of?," the chapter in "The Sneetches and Other Stories" in which a nameless narrator is pursued by an empty pair of possibly malevolent pale green pants. Here, a nameless narrator is trailed by a skunk, even while taking a cab, attending the opera, going to a carnival and visiting a graveyard. Why? The silent skunk isn't saying. As you may remember, Dr. Seuss' tale ends with an implicit moral about reflexive prejudice, the narrator realizing the empty pair of pale green pants are just as scared of him as he is of them; friendship ensues. Mac Barnett's story ends on a more ambivalent note, but a very amusing and psychologically astute one - and who better to appreciate the mutability of obsession than kids? The great Patrick McDonnell's drawings are, as always, perfect down to the last scratchy line, and "The Skunk's" endpapers, whether the work of McDonnell or the book's designer, encapsulate the story with brilliant economy. I'd like to think they'll inspire at least one child to become a graphic designer. The mission in "Special Delivery" is simple: Sadie, the young heroine, wants to mail an elephant to her Great-Aunt Josephine, "who lives almost completely alone and could really use the company." Well, O.K., the mission isn't that simple, especially after a post office clerk explains that it would take a wheelbarrow's worth of stamps to mail an elephant - and how do you stick stamps on an elephant anyway? Not one to give up easily, intrepid Sadie soon finds herself flying a biplane with the elephant in the back seat; befriending an alligator; and enjoying a crime spree with a gang of monkey bandits, which is ended only by ice cream sandwiches. Keeping this kind of whimsy aloft can be tricky, like kite-flying in a variable breeze, and Philip C. Stead's deadpan text, in combination with Matthew Cordell's fanciful but grounded drawings, is a master class in how to make that work: letting out enough string so that the silliness can soar but at the same time keeping the line taut so the whole thing doesn't fly away or plunge back to earth. Happily, Sadie and elephant make it to Great-Aunt Josephine's in one piece, and in a nice little twist, we discover that Sadie has been even busier than we realized. Imagine Madeline escaped from Miss Clavel's supervision, or Eloise out from under Nanny's eye, and set loose in Wonderland in boring old Alice's place. More, please. BRUCE HANDY is a contributing editor at Vanity Fair.
School Library Journal Review
K-Gr 3-A man is stalked by a silent skunk in this charmingly neurotic offering. Leaving his home one day, a bespectacled, tuxedo-clad gentleman discovers a small skunk sitting on his doorstep. As the man makes his way about town, the creature remains close on his heels (".after a mile I realized I was being followed.") He speeds up, he slows down, he takes many wild turns, but to no avail. Still the skunk remains. Barnett's text is delivered in short, clipped sentences that convey the man's annoyance and increasing paranoia. McDonnell's distinctive pen-and-ink illustrations (the little skunk bears a striking resemblance to a couple of familiar mutts) harken back to classic comic strip humor, with expressive body language, dynamic action lines, and thoughtful compositions, creating tension and drama. The majority of the book uses a limited palette of black, peach, touches of red (notably for the skunk's oversized nose and the man's posh bow-tie), and smart use of white space. The man finally outruns his striped admirer, purchasing a new house in a different part of the city. He throws himself a fancy party with dancing and dessert. But he finds himself wondering about that skunk ("What was he doing? Was he looking for me?") Roles reverse and the pursued becomes the pursuer, as the man now slinks around corners and behind trees, surreptitiously following the skunk-who, on the last page, looks anxiously over his shoulder at the man. Why did the skunk follow the man initially? Is this a tale of regret and missed opportunities, a lesson on the dangers of letting potential friends slip away? Of not knowing what you've got 'til it's gone? Barnett and McDonnell offer no explanations, but invite readers to ponder the possibilities. Here's hoping this talented duo pair up for many more picture book collaborations. VERDICT Clever visual motifs, sly storytelling, and tight pacing make this a picture book that will be enjoyed by children and their grown-ups.-Kiera Parrott, School Library Journal (c) Copyright 2015. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Kirkus Review
When is a skunk not a skunk? When it's askunk. A bespectacled man peers out his front door at a red-nosed skunk perched on his stoop, gazing back. The skunk does nothing overtly threatening, just looks at the man and then follows him down the street. The man sports tails and a cummerbund, his red bow tie visually connecting him to the skunk's red nose; overall, McDonnell's palette is muted, metropolitan blacks and grays occasionally accented by peach and red. The skunk is bipedal, his posture mimicking the narrator's as he tails the man through the city on foot and by cabyet, the narrator tells readers, "the skunk was a skunk." To the opera, through cemetery, carnivala brief sojourn on a Ferris wheel is particularly symbolic of existential futilityand sewers the man flees, finally finding himself in a completely different part of the city, where he buys a new house. Here the palette changes to primary colors; there is no skunk, but the man's visiting friends take on the look of circus clowns. Something is missing; the man leaves his housewarming party to find "[his] skunk." On doing so, the man begins to tail the skunk, to "make sure he does not follow me again." Adults will turn themselves inside out trying to figure it out; kids will either find the whole idea hysterical or just plain befuddling. Peculiar, perplexing, and persistenttraining wheels for Samuel Beckett. (Picture book. 6-10) Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
