Raymond Briggs and Me; or, The Banality of Evil for Children
Briggs didn’t create the monster lurking under the bed, he just told us it was there.
The SnowmanFather ChristmasThe Tin-Pot Foreign General and the Old Iron WomanWhen the Wind BlowsBriggs himself says
The Tin-Pot Foreign General and the Old Iron Woman
When the Wind BlowsThe Tin-Pot Foreign General and the Old Iron WomanWhen the Wind BlowsThe Crying Game
When the Wind BlowsClockwork Orange
Ruby Brunton is a New Zealand-raised writer, poet and performer who now lives in Brooklyn. She's had poems in Metatron, 4 Poets, Hobart and Witchcraft and essays in Hazlitt, Real Life, The New Inquiry and Mask Magazine where she is a contributing editor. She spends a lot of time thinking about intimacy, resistance, how to create community and education alternatives. Find her on twitter & tumblr @rubybrunton
More in this series
Fitzgerald was ground down, I imagine, consumed by how to take care of her family. This didn’t make her any less the thinker, writer, reader, that she was.
Tango is not a thing that can be done halfway. Neither, I learned, is memoir. You’re either all in, or you’re dishonest.