Will You Still Read Me When I'm 64?: SLJ Celebrates 50 Years

Which of today's titles will become tomorrow's classics? That's the question we asked some of our favorite children's book creators. It's a tough task to predict which books will endure—and we made it even tougher by limiting each author and illustrator to one measly selection. Although some of their choices may suggest the work of a mutual admiration society, chalk it up to honest coincidence and good taste: as far as we know, none of those surveyed knew the identities of the others. What follows is a list of often surprising (occasionally quirky) recommendations—with few of the usual suspects. So slide over, Dr. Seuss, and tell Margaret Wise Brown the news. There's a bevy of memorable books on the horizon—just waiting to be discovered by the next generation of lucky young readers.

I love Lilly's Purple Plastic Purse (Greenwillow, 1996) by Kevin Henkes. It's funny, touching, and true. Lilly might look like a mouse, but she perfectly embodies the passions, delights, and despairs of childhood. Her world, her relationships, the devastating impact of her purse are totally convincing. It even contains a book-within-a-book by Lilly herself. Lovely rhythmical writing, sharp and affecting illustrations—it's a little masterpiece. It should last forever.

I believe Bridge to Terabithia (Crowell, 1977) by Katherine Paterson is a classic now and always will be. It has appealing, real children in Jess and Leslie; a family that loves strongly and without sentimentality; an imaginary fantasy place that young readers can share—and a terrible tragedy. You will smile as you read one line, cry as you read the next. Can you write a book that is both heartbreaking and uplifting? You can, if you're Katherine Paterson.

One book that I am absolutely sure will become a classic is David Almond's Skellig (Delacorte, 1999). It was his first book published for young adults, and I remember reading it and being knocked sideways by its simplicity, depth, and lyricism. Almond has an amazing instinct for looking at the human condition through the prism of fantasy. It's not that he's a "fantasist"; he just pushes reality one stage further than most writers, along the road to truth.

I love Peggy Rathmann's absolutely adorable The Day the Babies Crawled Away (Putnam, 2003). The story concept is so original and appealing. What four-year-old wouldn't want to be the gallant savior of a pack of bad babies? Especially when he is cheered by all the parents (who were not paying attention when they should have been). Then, too, the artwork has got to fascinate small children. It introduces them to silhouettes and inspires their imagination.

Make mine William Steig's Abel's Island (Farrar, 1976)—for its hero's courage and resourcefulness, for its mouse-sized Edwardian world, and most of all for its endless, bubbly playing with the English language. Future readers curious as to what was meant by "style" (or "portmanteau word") will need only to open Steig.

Spun from silk and shadow, Zazoo (Clarion, 2001) glides gracefully into readers' awareness. Richard Mosher's lyrical narrative weaves the aftermath of two wars into a tale of haunting beauty. The details of the French canal on which Zazoo lives with her fading Grand Pierre are revealed in a rich, multilayered dreamscape. Is this book flawless? Very nearly. Can it be forgiven its tidy ending? Certainly. Will it become a classic? Unlikely. Should it become a classic? Absolutely.

If this ever becomes a classic maybe I can find a copy. It was a cheap softbound storybook, with lots of illustrations, big pages, and a story about a candy store where the candy came alive at night. The chocolate-covered almonds were extremely snooty, which is, we all know, exactly what chocolate-covered almonds are like, and an argument among the candy ended in, "'Shut up,' said the gumdrop rudely."

Since picking only one book sounded nearly impossible, I simply shut my eyes and guessed. The Ear, the Eye and the Arm (Orchard, 1994) by Nancy Farmer immediately swam to the forefront of my mind. Ten years after it was published, this title presented itself with such calm assurance that I feel certain it will retain a place in world literature. Anyway, I love it, which is good enough for me.

The Tenth Good Thing About Barney (Atheneum, 1971) by Judith Viorst begins: "My cat Barney died last Friday. I was very sad." My friend Helene called me. Her cat died. She was very sad. I sent her a copy of Barney. Shortly thereafter, a stray cat wandered into her garage seeking shelter from a storm. When the rain stopped, the cat would not leave. He never left. She named him Barney, and he successfully lived out the remainder of his nine lives under her loving care. When the Skye terrier belonging to my four-year-old grand-triplets had to be "put down," the veterinarian told their parents to stop at the bookstore on the way home and pick up a copy of Barney and read it to them. They did.

The Tenth Good Thing About Barney ends by telling the tenth good thing, and that tenth good thing plus the warmth and charm of the other nine plus the two very good things I have just told make 12 good reasons why The Tenth Good Thing About Barney will become tomorrow's classic.

One book I hope will last is Uncommon Traveler (Houghton, 2000), Don Brown's cunning picture-book life of Victorian adventuress Mary Kingsley. This is a remarkable work of biographical distillation—funny, smart, swift paced, and affectionate. And while it's always a happy occasion when a heroine long unsung finally receives her due, here the pleasure is increased by the sense that subject and biographer are birds of a feather: blithely idiosyncratic fellow explorers who chose improbable projects for themselves, and pulled them off with imagination to spare.

As soon as I read the opening paragraph of Owl in Love (Houghton, 1993), I was in love—with Owl. She is a perfect example of strong POV and "voice," those oft-discussed attributes of fiction—an Austenesque heroine who happens to be a shape-shifter that prefers mice to mousse. Only Owl could narrate, in her rather formal and unironic voice, her story—and only Patrice Kindl could have created her. Long may Owl endure!

Many years ago, in a different life, I was a DJ with a radio program in Prague, conducting interviews in London. The Beatles invited me to their newly established Apple Records headquarters on Saville Row. They played some records for me and asked my opinion. I proclaimed a number of them classics! But I have to admit nobody has heard about them since. Therefore, I do not put much trust in my opinion.

Even though I would like to think of my own books as classics, I do not think so. Even if I would like to think of the books by my close friends and counterparts as classics, I do not think so. I wish Henrik Drescher's books were classics, but the world is spinning too fast (so I don't think so). Perhaps Edward Gorey and Tomi Ungerer? That would be nice. William Steig? William Steig is a classic! I think so!

I have read Lois Lowry's The Giver (Houghton, 1993) many times, and find something new in it each time, a characteristic common in truly great books. But the reason I think it will still be read by schoolchildren for hundreds of years to come is that it taps into their deepest longings—to contribute, to be unique, and to be valued for self.

Max Found Two Sticks (S & S, 1994) by Brian Pinkney is one of the major books of the late 20th century. It shows in the most vivid terms how the creative artist emerges. Max is allowed to sit quietly on his front stoop, and thus he's ready when musical instruments drop out of a nearby tree. To the rest of us, they look like two sticks. His supportive family encourages him as he practices, practices, practices, allowing music to change his life.