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A review by expendablemudge
D'Aulaires' Norse Gods and Giants by Ingri d'Aulaire, Edgar Parin d'Aulaire
4.0
Well-loved books from my past
Rating: 4* of five
Ingri and Edgar Parin d'Aulaire were a married couple of Euro-origin, he Swiss and she Norwegian, who came to the US in the 1920s to pursue fame and fortune. Edgar was an illustrator for books, magazines, and the like, while Ingri painted rich guys' portraits. Came the Depression, oh dearie me...everything got harder...so the two collaborated on writing and illustrating kids' books together. For forty-plus years, the couple turned out beautiful, beautiful books.
This book, published in 1967, was a gift from my dad to me. I haven't got a lot of fond memories of my parents, and oddly most of them center around books in one shape or another. This is no exception. Dad read the book to me, even though by 1967 I was reading on my own, and we both loved the experience. He's a hambone and a half, my dad, funny and quick and full of wordplay. This book launched him on trajectories of mythmashing that, had I known then what I know now, I'd've written down or memorized or tape-recorded or something. He was abso-bloody-lutely riotous doing Odin as a doddering old fuffertut and Thor as a lisping faggot (my sides are already hurting remembering the way that made me laugh...still does...) and the Valkyries as whining misery-guts.
P.C. he was, and is, not.
The last time we spoke on the phone, before deafness and vascular dementia made it pointless to speak at all, I reminded Dad of this book. He laughed like he had when he was 40. He lit up as he did the voices again. It was a good last conversation to have with him, and it's all down to being a great big kid as he always was, and appreciating his kidliness left me feeling a lot less angry for his adult failings.
So this book holds my special and dear gratitude for being a bridge to a man I never loved, but always felt impatient with and annoyed by and hurt by. Books are magic, and myths are real, and don't ever, ever, ever forget that.
Rating: 4* of five
Ingri and Edgar Parin d'Aulaire were a married couple of Euro-origin, he Swiss and she Norwegian, who came to the US in the 1920s to pursue fame and fortune. Edgar was an illustrator for books, magazines, and the like, while Ingri painted rich guys' portraits. Came the Depression, oh dearie me...everything got harder...so the two collaborated on writing and illustrating kids' books together. For forty-plus years, the couple turned out beautiful, beautiful books.
This book, published in 1967, was a gift from my dad to me. I haven't got a lot of fond memories of my parents, and oddly most of them center around books in one shape or another. This is no exception. Dad read the book to me, even though by 1967 I was reading on my own, and we both loved the experience. He's a hambone and a half, my dad, funny and quick and full of wordplay. This book launched him on trajectories of mythmashing that, had I known then what I know now, I'd've written down or memorized or tape-recorded or something. He was abso-bloody-lutely riotous doing Odin as a doddering old fuffertut and Thor as a lisping faggot (my sides are already hurting remembering the way that made me laugh...still does...) and the Valkyries as whining misery-guts.
P.C. he was, and is, not.
The last time we spoke on the phone, before deafness and vascular dementia made it pointless to speak at all, I reminded Dad of this book. He laughed like he had when he was 40. He lit up as he did the voices again. It was a good last conversation to have with him, and it's all down to being a great big kid as he always was, and appreciating his kidliness left me feeling a lot less angry for his adult failings.
So this book holds my special and dear gratitude for being a bridge to a man I never loved, but always felt impatient with and annoyed by and hurt by. Books are magic, and myths are real, and don't ever, ever, ever forget that.