(+++) PUSHING BOUNDARIES

Cat Kid Comic Club No. 2: Perspectives. By Dav Pilkey. Graphix/Scholastic. $12.99.

Murder Book: A Graphic Memoir of a True Crime Obsession. By Hilary Fitzgerald Campbell. Andrews McMeel. $19.99.

     Graphic novels have matured as a medium to such an extent that they can now tackle more-mature topics – aimed at children and adults alike. This is a positive development, taken as a whole, but does mean parents considering graphic novels for younger readers – say, through preteens – have to pay more attention to the books before buying them, since embedded lessons and viewpoints may show up in unexpected places. Certainly the graphic novels by Dav Pilkey – including the Dog Man and Captain Underpants series – seem an unlikely place for societal commentary and expression of views on real-world issues. But in the second Cat Kid Comic Club spinoff from the Dog Man series, Pilkey lays on, rather heavy-handedly, some life lessons that replace his usual jocularity and fondness for bad puns. The title of the book, Perspectives, is a clever hint of what is to come, since artists (including the tadpoles/froglets in Cat Kid’s comics class) need to know how to create perspective in their drawings – but as Flippy the fish (“Daddy” to the class members) points out, “Perspective isn’t just about drawing!!! It’s also about understanding! It’s about seeing the world from someone else’s point of view!!!” Oh yes, there will certainly be a message here – and in fact, there has already been one (a different one) by the time Flippy makes his pronouncement. It comes in the form of one comic created by class members, “Supa Fail 2: Old Lady’s Revenge.” This has the evil old lady create a “polluter computer” that stomps around creating a nefarious “carbon footprint” until Supa Fail stops it with “carbon tacks” (even though this book’s intended audience may not get the pun on “tax”). Well, the comic is certainly prejudiced against old ladies, but Pilkey does not mind that. Elsewhere, Flippy automatically blames and punishes Melvin when he and Naomi get into one of their frequent arguments – but, again, Pilkey does not mind that. What he does mind is someone being unfair to Naomi, which happens at a flea market that also features games. The operator of a knock-the-cans-over game encourages Melvin and gives him balloons even though he can barely throw the ball – and then nearly ignores Naomi when she performs brilliantly, calling her “little girly” and reluctantly giving her a single balloon after giving three to Melvin. This lets Pilkey have Naomi say, “Girls have to work harder than boys and we still get less!!! Less respect, less money, less freedom, less opportunities, and dopes like you never even notice!!!” So Melvin, suitably chastened, creates a comic about how wonderful Naomi is, and an important lesson is learned. The lesson is that it’s all right to portray all old ladies as nasty and it’s all right if “Daddy” punishes a boy for something he did not do, but it is not all right to shortchange a girl. Of course, this is not exactly the lesson that Pilkey thinks he is teaching, but it is the one that careful readers of Cat Kid Comic Club No. 2 will get. Pilkey probably hopes he can guide young readers carefully through the minefield he has himself created – and maybe he can. But there are pitfalls to using a graphic novel for young readers to try to tackle societal issues – doubly so when this book is so different from the first Cat Kid Comic Club book, which readers of the second really need to know (since Cat Kid is nearly absent from the second book, and Pilkey gives no background on the club and no information on how the whole set of circumstances came to be). Some of Pilkey’s trademark silliness does make its way into Perspectives, through class-created comics such as one about time travel to Chicago in 1871 and the accidental igniting of the city’s notorious fire, and one about Chubbs McSpiderbutt, whose rear end becomes a spider body after he is spider-bitten there. Also in the book is the second comic-club creation mixing poetry and photography – a highlight of the first book that is again genuinely intriguing (and surprisingly serious, in this context) in its combination of haiku with actual photos of nature. But the real seriousness here, in sections about a “carbon footprint” and flea-market (and by implication societal) unfairness to girls, is ham-handed and disappointing in its earnest political correctness.

     The intended audience for Hilary Fitzgerald Campbell’s Murder Book: A Graphic Memoir of a True Crime Obsession is quite different from Pilkey’s: Campbell’s is a graphic novel that is emphatically for adults only (given some of the drawings and some of the language). And it turns out that the key word in the title is not “murder,” which is what will likely draw readers to the book, but “memoir.” The book is first, foremost and to the greatest extent about Campbell: her interests, her background, her family, her concerns and worries and habits and hobbies – watching or reading about true crime being a major preoccupation and a thread that runs through the entire book. But it is only a thread: the book’s first pages suggest there is more murder analysis here (that is, analysis of why Campbell and many other people are so interested in murder) than in fact there is. This is a book for “murderinos,” that word being introduced toward the end in connection with material about murder-focused podcasts. And it is a book that goes into very considerable detail tracing the events in some significant serial-killer cases – notably those of Ted Bundy and Tom Capano – while swerving constantly into more-or-less-interesting side channels, such as a biography of author Ann Rule (who, among other things, actually knew Bundy). There are some surprising (and surprisingly light) moments in the book, such as one involving a whodunit that shows an owl asking “who?” and an illustration of two skeletons with remotes “binging docuseries” (which should be “bingeing,” for what it’s worth). There is also a full page showing 20 different expressions, each going with different words, and labeled “How to React to Forensic Files or really, any true crime show.” But far too much of the book – for those more interested in its ostensible topic than in Campbell herself – shows the author interacting with people and/or reminiscing. Typical word-balloon sequence: “Back to me!!! And my obsessions! What came after Zodiac? I lived in L.A. Worked at a film festival. Became very into documentary. And non-fiction! I guess I just fell in love with true, hilarious, dark stories. Probably why I became a cartoonist. But what does any of this have to do with murder?” Good question, that last balloon – and the answer is “not much,” but also “a great deal in terms of Campbell’s interest in murder.” Murder Book is really not focused on murder, or murder obsessiveness, but instead is as scattered as Campbell’s thoughts seem to be: she draws herself doing stretching exercises with her mom, repeatedly shows herself going to the bathroom (complete with urine stream in one panel), and continually lurches about in the narrative while returning again and again to her primary focus on herself – “I am my mother’s daughter!! I am chill, but I am so not chill. I am relaxed, but I also cannot handle if there isn’t, like, a plan for the day?!?” A little self-awareness goes a long way; a lot of it, which is what Campbell offers, does not go nearly so far. She does include an occasional pop-psychology comment related to people’s interest in murder (from a psychologist or otherwise presumably knowledgeable source). And she does establish her adult bone fides through some drawings (full frontal nudity of one male suspect, although it makes sense only if you know what “A.S.M.R.” means, since she never explains the acronym) and through some writing (“Tom, we did anal last week”). But Campbell is so self-engaged that she makes odd narrative errors. She misquotes John 3:16 by leaving out “so,” and it comes out, “For God loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son…” On one page (237) she writes “which lead to” instead of “which led to”; on another (241) she writes “that’s now how it works” instead of “not how”; on still another (253) she uses the nonexistent word “empathasized.” She also crowds many panels so much that the drawings almost disappear – and in numerous cases she omits drawings altogether, turning Murder Book at times into an almost graphic novel rather than one using art to propel the story. This is a decidedly adult-focused work that ultimately offers little insight into the reasons many people delve so deeply, even obsessively, into murder books and TV shows and podcasts and more; but it offers considerable information on Campbell herself, her true-crime preoccupation clearly being an important element of her life and interests. Readers who find Campbell and her discursive style intriguing will get much more from Murder Book than those actually looking for a book about non-criminal preoccupation with murder.

(+++) PIANO, FAMILIAR AND LESS SO

Bach: Goldberg Variations. Peter Tomasz, piano. MSR Classics. $14.95.

Shostakovich: Piano Sonata No. 2; Frank Bridge: Piano Sonata. Sally Pinkas, piano. MSR Classics. $14.95.

     There are innumerable fine recordings of Bach’s Goldberg Variations on piano, none of which can adequately resolve the issue of playing the work on an instrument for which it was not written – and all of which, therefore, constitute very personalized interpretations of the music. To this group may now be added the MSR Classics release featuring Peter Tomasz, who handles the music with elegance and delicacy – and little attempt to have the piano imitate or try to reproduce the sound of the two-manual harpsichord for which Bach wrote this work. From the start, Tomasz uses his modern instrument’s “piano” and “forte” capabilities to emote in a way that is not possible on a harpsichord; and he uses pedaling techniques in ways that make the music sound quite different from the way it does when taking advantage of harpsichord registration capabilities. By the time of the third variation (Canone all’Unisono), Tomasz has clearly established a sound world whose harmonic blending is foreign to Bach’s contrapuntal creativity but that is internally consistent: this is far from authentic Bach, but it is authentic Tomasz, reflective of his viewpoint on the music and his interpretative skill in putting that view across. How well this works depends on the extent to which a listener shares Tomasz’ thinking. Certainly there is plenty of fleetness in the short Variation 5, for example, but the following Variation 6 (Canone alla Seconda) seems a bit too chordally emphatic, and entries in the Fughetta (Variation 10) lack a certain degree of precision. The extended Variation 13 has a pleasantly pastoral sound (albeit with a touch of unneeded rubato); and Variation 15 (Canone alla Quinta in moto contrario), one of the three in G minor rather than G major, is affecting both in simplicity of approach and in emotional evocation – which, however, very much depends on the capabilities of the piano vs. the harpsichord. The second minor-key variation (No. 21, Canone alla Settima) is also used by Tomasz for the considerable level of emotion that the piano makes possible (although here as elsewhere, touches of rubato are uncalled for); the following Variation 22 (Alla breve), however, lacks charm. Not surprisingly in a piano-focused interpretation, Tomasz treats the final minor-key variation, No. 25 – the longest section of the work – as the climax of the whole piece, taking it very slowly indeed and with considerable pedal use. The result is that this variation sounds a bit like Schumann and not very much like Bach – and the six pieces that follow become something of an anticlimax, despite being played with enthusiasm and (in the case of Variation 28) with more attention to counterpoint than Tomasz offers elsewhere. On balance, this is a consistent and consistently personal view of the Goldberg Variations, played with technical pianistic skill and an unashamed willingness to use the modern instrument’s capabilities to bring out the feelings (if not always the structure) that Tomasz finds in the music.

     Well-conveyed emotion is the central point of another MSR Classics CD, this one featuring much-later keyboard works that are clearly intended to explore the full capabilities of the piano. Sally Pinkas is an ardent and strongly involved performer of these sonatas, the Shostakovich dating to 1943 and the Bridge to 1924. The works are quite different, and their pairing may be either jarring or revelatory, depending on a listener’s response to the music. Neither of the sonatas is as frequently heard as Bach’s Goldberg Variations, but neither is really obscure, and Pinkas gives both pieces a fresh look (and fresh sound) that will engage even listeners who already know them well. Her care with the clarity of left and right hand in the first movement of the Shostakovich, for example, is managed with exceptional precision – making the music sound almost Bach-like in balance if scarcely in other ways. Interestingly, and not to stretch Bach comparisons too far, Pinkas seems aware of the value of using less pedal than usual in this work (the opposite of what Tomasz tends to do with the Goldberg Variations). So Shostakovich comes across here as a more-subtle composer than is often the case – an impression accentuated because Pinkas pays as much attention to the quiet parts of the Piano Sonata No. 2 as to the more-emphatic ones. She also has a fine sense of pacing, which is as evident in Bridge’s sonata as in Shostakovich’s. The Bridge is a somewhat thornier work, and one whose balance inverts that of Shostakovich: the third movement of the Russian sonata is nearly as long as the first two put together, while the opening movement of the English sonata is the longest and densest of the three. The lugubriousness of much of the Bridge sonata is if anything over-emphasized by Pinkas, with the opening Lento ma non troppo section of the first movement so slow as to be essentially static. Pinkas reserves considerable power in the Bridge for the work’s finale – to very fine effect. Bridge’s tonal language is not all that different from Shostakovich’s, but the way it is used is quite distinctive – and in some ways less accessible. Bridge’s sonorities tend to be on the thick side, and Pinkas turns this reality into an emotional connection with the less-clotted Shostakovich, giving these two sonatas parallel effects that in general are scarcely evident. The pairing of these pieces turns out, thanks to Pinkas’ interpretations, to be complementary and even clever, although the sensibilities of the composers remain more different than similar. This CD is noteworthy for the excellence of Pinkas’ playing and the nuances of her interpretations – although the frequently dour nature of the music means the disc may better be heard in two separate listening sessions than in a single start-to-finish one.

(+++) SOUNDS FROM ALL OVER

Dave Flynn: The Cranning; The Cutting; The Keening; Stories form the Old World. ConTempo Quartet; IMO Quartet; Mick O’Brien, uilleann pipes; Breanndán Begley, voice. First Hand Records. $15.

Global Saxophone: Music by Arodi Martínez Serrano, Christian Lauba, Elliott Bark, Perry Goldstein, Lan-In Winnie Yang, and Jean Matitia. Scott Litroff, alto and soprano saxophone; Matthieu Cognet, piano. MSR Classics. $14.95.

Grieg: Sonatas Nos. 1-3 for Violin and Piano, transcribed for flute by Kaleb Chesnic. Kaleb Chesnic, flute; Nathália Kato, piano. MSR Classics. $14.95.

     More interesting than the question of just what “world music” means for composers of the late 20^th and early 21^st centuries is a consideration of whether such music, however defined, is intended to make points or score points. Some composers who still consider themselves “classical” look to music from various corners of the world to enhance and expand upon traditional European models, including European scales, tones, rhythms and harmonies. Other composers seem to be mostly interested in proving their own bona fides as articulators and exponents of music from specific regions or nations. On the basis of a new First Hand Records CD, Dave Flynn (born 1977) is in the latter group. Although two of the four works on the disc use a traditional string quartet, the music even in those two pieces, The Cranning and The Keening, seems focused primarily on showcasing Flynn’s knowledge of and commitment to traditional Irish musical material. The other two pieces on the CD, The Cutting and Stories from the Old World, both employ uilleann pipes – the national bagpipes of Ireland – to complement a string quartet (in The Cutting) and to accompany voice plus string quartet (in Stories from the Old World). This is not so much seeking exoticism for its own sake as it is a matter of Flynn steeping himself in Irish musical traditions and incorporating them into music intended for audiences specifically interested in Ireland and its music. In all these works, Flynn seems to be at pains to showcase “Irish-isms” of the music without any particular regard for how they relate to material from other traditions – that is, all these works are deliberately self-limited by Flynn’s focus on having them sound as Irish as possible. This puts Flynn’s music at the opposite extreme from works labeled with the name of a country even when their relationship to it is minimal or wholly subjective – such as Mendelssohn’s “Italian” and “Scottish” symphonies and, perhaps more to the point, Sullivan’s “Irish” symphony. Yet Flynn never really reaches out beyond national boundaries in the way that, say, Kodály did in his “Marosszék” and “Galánta” dances, or Bartók did in much of his oeuvre. There are a few hints of interest in a wider audience in the earliest work on the CD, The Cranning (2004-2005), which is Flynn’s String Quartet No. 2. The Keening (2007), labeled as String Quartet No. 3, is 50% longer (19 minutes vs. 13) despite being in three movements rather than four, and partakes of all the excesses (or strengths, depending on one’s viewpoint) of minimalist composition, developing its features very slowly and gradually throughout. The Cutting (2008/2020), labeled as Quintet No. 1 for Uilleann Pipes and String Quartet, relegates the strings to the background almost throughout, focusing attention on the pipes’ steady and largely repetitive material. And Stories from the Old World (2008), although given some aural variation by the mere presence of a voice, is spoken entirely in Irish, becoming at once an assertion of the importance of the language and a substantial barrier to understanding and enjoyment by anyone not thoroughly familiar with what is being said. Everything on the CD is performed quite well, and certainly offers listeners exposure to a musical tradition beyond the ordinary (at least in classical-music terms). But the disc is substantially and apparently deliberately self-limited in the assertiveness of Flynn’s compositions in demonstrating just how Irish they and their composer are.

     The focus is less on the composers and more on the performer on an MSR Classics release in which the world-music concept is explored partly with an eye toward investigating little-known contemporary material and partly with the intent of offering works written or commissioned by saxophonist Scott Litroff. Arrullo Caprichoso (2019) by Arodi Martínez Serrano (born 1977) and Garden by the Stream (2019) by Lan-In Winnie Yang (born 1980)  are single-movement alto-saxophone works written for Litroff; the former has a certain degree of swing to its rhythms, while the latter is quieter, more impressionistic, and thoughtful in its use of the saxophone’s lower range. The three-movement Three Places in South Korea (2020) by Elliott Bark (born 1980) was commissioned by Litroff, and this too is impressionistic music, focusing first on the site of the 2018 Winter Olympics, then on a sense of quiet permeating the harbor city of Busan, and finally on the hustle and bustle of Seoul – jazz influence is pronounced throughout the work. Also on the disc is Just a Song (2019) by Christian Lauba (born 1952), a bluesy and emotionally somewhat heart-on-sleeve exploration of the saxophone’s warmth; the two-movement Heaven (2007) by Perry Goldstein (born 1952), which opens with an extended saxophone solo and eventually contrasts a quiet and somewhat ponderous movement with one that expresses yearning at perhaps too great a length; and Crazy Rag (2008) by Jean Matitia (born 1952), a brief encore that concludes the CD with delightful ebullience that is entirely absent from the rest of the recording. Litroff plays everything with exceptional breath control and an excellent sense of pacing, and pianist Matthieu Cognet accepts his instrument’s secondary role throughout with good grace, providing top-notch backup without ever taking the limelight away from its intended recipient. Despite the varied provenances of the works here, there is in fact a certain sameness to their handling of the saxophone, a tendency to bow in the direction of jazz at any and all opportunities, producing music that lies well on the instrument but does less in the way of breaking new ground than listeners might expect from the very recent time frame within which all the music was written. Still, there is something salutary in recognizing the ability and desire of some contemporary composers, wherever they hail from and whatever their topics may be, being interested in producing music that fits an instrument well and has the potential to reach out to an audience interested in hearing some new material for that instrument.

     The music of Grieg is in many ways as Norwegian as that of Flynn is Irish, but it is far better-known – yet there is nevertheless a pleasant exploratory element to an MSR Classics release featuring Grieg’s three violin sonatas. This is actually a CD of world première recordings, because the sonatas are heard here in transcriptions newly prepared by flautist Kaleb Chesnic and performed by him with pianist Nathália Kato. Like Cognet on the disc featuring Litroff, Kato on this one knows enough to strive to remain in a supporting role, although she has a fair amount to do here simply by virtue of the way Grieg wrote the music. There is considerable nationalism inherent in these sonatas, especially the second, but Grieg uses the material expressively and it therefore reaches out well beyond Norway to an extent that Flynn has not accomplished if his desire is to get through to audiences beyond Ireland. Grieg’s first two sonatas date to the mid-1860s and are in some significant ways complementary: the first, in F, is generally bright even though it has its share of intense and troubled moments, while the second, in G, is deeper and darker and has a stronger sense of Norwegian identity. The third sonata is a much later work than the first two, dating to 1886, and is the most successful blend of strictly Norwegian elements (it uses folk melodies and rhythms as effective building blocks) with a wider scope that reaches out well beyond Norway’s borders. For example, the bleakness of the very end of the first movement, which comes at the conclusion of an otherwise lyrical coda, seems at once Norwegian and universal. Chesnic’s flute transcriptions are attractive and sensitive to the nuances of the material, and his playing is strong and assured throughout. Use of the flute is, however, considerably more successful in the first two sonatas than in the third. Lyricism is pervasive, in somewhat different guises, in the first and second sonatas, and Chesnic’s playing has an involving, at times soulful sound that fits the material very well. Even the Lento doloroso opening of the first movement of No. 2 sounds fine on the flute, precisely because Chesnic does not overdo the pathos of the passage; similarly, the gently lilting second movement of the second sonata fits the flute quite well. But the third sonata, In C minor, is less satisfactory as a work for flute and piano. The flute simply does not offer the tonal variety needed to, for example, contrast the lovely opening of the slow movement (in E) with the darkly brooding central section (in the tonic minor). There is nothing particularly wrong with Chesnic’s transcription, and certainly no deficiency in his playing, but the heartfelt nature of the third sonata, and its contrasts between light and dark passages, are simply not communicated as effectively by flute as by violin. This is a CD that flautists will certainly enjoy and that listeners who already know the sonatas may find a worthwhile alternative experience – once, anyway. But the main thing it does is to confirm just how well Grieg’s three violin sonatas, especially the third, fit the instruments for which they were originally written.

(++++) LIVING AS AN OUTSIDER

“Sarah’s Scribbles” Collection No. 4: Oddball. By Sarah Andersen. Andrews McMeel. $14.99.

A Tale as Tall as Jacob: Misadventures with My Brother. By Samantha Edwards. Andrews McMeel. $11.99.

     Most people feel from time to time as if they just don’t belong. Some people feel that way almost all the time. Some of those slide into depression or turn to alcohol, other drugs, obsessive social-media use, or other bad habits or addictions. A few, though, turn to art. And that is what Sarah Andersen does in her Sarah’s Scribbles chronicles of a 21^st-century twentysomething woman and her cat, dog, rabbit, brain, uterus and other cleverly drawn cartoon characters, some of whom even appear on stickers – the book includes a page featuring a dozen of them. Sarah’s Scribbles works unusually well because it clearly depicts cartoon Sarah’s foibles and concerns as a member of her generation – but also manages to touch on some multigenerational concerns that help it reach out beyond Andersen’s own age group. In fact, Andersen has an amusingly skewed view of aging, as in a four-panel offering called “Aging Millennial Humor” that shows a wheelchair-bound character (resembling a much older cartoon Sarah) talking about a dog while using slang that nobody around her understands anymore (“heccin good pupper,” “13/10 good boi,” etc.). And if that character does not quite fit in, neither does current-age cartoon Sarah in many other strips. “Anxious Friends” has her and another woman telling each other they are nervous about going to a party, clasping hands in solidarity, then standing together against a wall at the party while everyone else interacts. Elsewhere, cartoon Sarah is identified as being one among the group of “people who are terrified of vulnerability,” trying to cope with people who are empathetic. Still elsewhere, cartoon Sarah describes herself as “being an oddball with hyperspecific interests.” But not everything in Sarah’s Scribbles is about difficulty dealing with people and fitting in: some strips are about difficulty dealing with people and getting them to pay attention and understand things. In one of those, a woman keeps asking cartoon Sarah how she draws so well, Sarah keeps saying “practice,” and the woman blithely keeps re-asking the question or trying to figure out something other than “practice” that might explain it. In another, a fashion designer keeps asking what women want in clothing, completely ignoring cartoon Sarah’s repeated statements that she wants to be comfortable. And then there are the strips focusing on Sarah’s internal thoughts and everyday challenges. Andersen finds ways to make all her foibles relatable. For instance, a “How I Tell Stories” page shows cartoon Sarah walking from “Beginning” to “Middle” before turning in a new direction at “Detour” and then proceeding to “Another Detour,” and “Another Detour,” and so on, apparently ad infinitum. And “Suddenly Finding a New Obsession” shows a bored-looking Sarah, at a computer, suddenly perking up and becoming super-wide-eyed with involvement in something-or-other – with the fourth and final panel showing frog decorations all over the walls, shelves, computer itself, and even on Sarah (who is wearing a frog costume). Encapsulating Andersen’s feeling of being an outsider is one seven-panel page on which she is talking with her personified brain, which says “We are anxious because…” – leading cartoon Sarah to ask, again and again “Because why?” And her brain repeatedly answers, “Because.” That is all the answer Sarah is going to get. A somewhat different encapsulation is a four-panel strip in which cartoon Sarah, while watering her garden, talks about being kind to her peers because “support helps people grow,” after which a flower asks her, “What about being kind to yourself?” The final panel shows an angry Sarah about to stomp the flower. Well, being kind to yourself is tough for many people…

     Being kind to others can be a challenge, too, especially when their “otherness” is caused by significant physical and/or mental and emotional issues – such as attention deficit-hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). That condition lies at the heart of Samantha Edwards’ graphic novel, A Tale as Tall as Jacob, and if that seems a very heavy topic – and a potentially heavy-handed one inviting a preachy story – the book will be a surprise. There is no attempt here to diminish the difficulties, heartbreak and family stresses caused by having one child who is developmentally normal (narrator Samantha), one who turns out to have a pronounced case of ADHD (Jacob, as in the book’s title), and eventually a third child born into the midst of all the family issues, disruptions and uncertainties (baby Luke). This book’s cover neatly summarizes its topic, showing Jacob looming large over everyone else in the family (twice the size of the parents), rampaging through the house and stomping on or near books, furniture, even the family pets. Complicating matters involving Jacob further, beyond the ADHD (which makes things complicated enough), Jacob has a speech impediment that develops because of a congenital problem with his frenulum (the flap of skin that anchors the tongue to the bottom of the mouth). The problem is surgically corrected, but Jacob’s speech difficulties continue, and Samantha is for a long time needed as interpreter – only she can understand what he is saying. It would be easy for A Tale as Tall as Jacob to turn into melodrama or soap opera, and certainly it has elements of both, but this is basically a realistic and unexaggerated more-or-less autobiography (of Samantha) and more-or-less biography (of Jacob), effectively told using standard graphic-novel methods. The chapter titles make the basic topics quite clear. For instance: “In which Samantha must learn to be nice to Jacob (but he makes it so hard).” And: “In which Jacob-zilla tries to ruin my life” (Jacob has a fascination with Godzilla and often seems to be trying to imitate the famous monster). Samantha is not above making comments to Jacob such as, “You ruin everything fun” and “You are the worst and I hate you,” but she also dances with him at a relative’s wedding, plays with him in a treehouse after the family moves in anticipation of Luke’s arrival, and is amazed when he uses his unusual strength (which has been apparent since he was a baby) to grab a tree limb and chase off three older and bigger bullies. What comes through repeatedly in A Tale as Tall as Jacob is that it is very, very hard to live with a child with ADHD, and at times seems nearly impossible despite all the medical advances in understanding the condition and treating it (doctors eventually find medicine that helps Jacob). It also becomes clear that even if Jacob will be a perpetual outsider in some senses, in others he certainly does belong – to his sister, to his family, and even (with assistance) to school and various age-appropriate activities, in which he can engage with suitable modulation and help. There is nothing easy about having ADHD or interacting regularly with someone who does. But like any medical condition, ADHD does not have to become the defining factor in someone’s life or in the lives of other family members. People with ADHD will always, in a sense, be outsiders when it comes to groups or activities involving those who do not have the condition. But when families and others are willing to do the hard extra work needed to accept those with ADHD, these outsiders can learn that they are welcome inside a place of caring, affection and love.