The Skull: A Tyrolean Folktale

Klassen's newest offering will be highly coveted.

This eerie reworking of a Tyrolean folktale by Caldecott Medalist Klassen opens as pale-skinned young Otilla, lost in a snowy forest after running away, stumbles upon a mansion inhabited by a talking skull. Somber, digitally finished graphite and ink artwork imbues the forest and the mansion with shadowy verticality. The skull greets Otilla from a window with an uncomfortable but dryly funny proposition: "I will come down and let you in, but only if you promise to carry me once I do. I am just a skull, and rolling around is difficult for me." Otilla agrees, and the skull shows her the abandoned home's rooms, its bottomless pit, and its tall tower. Confiding as they go, the skull eventually mentions the headless skeleton that pursues it each night. Otilla falls easily into a caretaking role as the two eat pears, dance, and bed down in relative safety. When the skeleton appears, Otilla moves with an imaginatively cold-blooded finality that reflects both characters' desire not to be pursued. Echoes of other forbidding fairy tales pervade this high-stakes telling, in which Otilla's primal bravery and sly wit result in an arc from flight to mutual reliance. An author's note concludes. Ages 6-9. Agent: Steve Malk, Writers House. (July)

Copyright 2023 Publishers Weekly, LLC Used with permission.

Employing his customary pitch-perfect tonal gymnastics, only Klassen could inspire readers to want craniums as pals.

The dark tones of the art are warmed by slants of peach-hued winter sunlight; like the scary-funny story, darkness and light work in tandem ­surprisingly well.

Klassen has proved especially good at introducing new, often solo, young readers to the unsettling but intriguing place where fear becomes an essential narrative element, offering enough humor and absurdity to provide comfort on the journey. Such is the case with The Skull, a reimagining of a Tyrolean folktale that shows a young girl's resolve against unnamed, unexplained threats. . . . the book offers a lesson on the usefulness of fear and likely a reminder of what kids already suspect: the world can be awful and scary, but empathy and friendship can arise from its darkest places. —The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books (starred review) 

Readers can enjoy a quick read, the implementation of interesting literary elements, and the humor that we have come to know from Klassen. —School Library Connection

Jon Klassen brings his droll humor and just the right amount of spine-tingling creepiness to this retelling of a Tyrolean folktale. . . . Klassen uses his spare text to great effect and the mostly monochromatic illustrations provide just the right eerie echo. This is a book sure to be read over and over and over again. Even the most reluctant reader will be eager to keep these pages turning. —The New York Journal of Books

Klassen's recognizable graphite-and-ink illustrations capture the haunting—yet somehow charming—atmosphere of the stark Austrian setting, where shadows loom, bones come to life, and apricot sunshine cuts through the gloom. . . . Is the story creepy? You bet, but it's also weirdly sweet and characterized by agency, kindness, and choice. . . . Klassen's newest offering will be highly coveted. — Booklist

Unflappable Otilla and the unfailingly polite skull make for odd but exemplary companions in this well-paced tale. . . . illustrated in classic, deadpan Klassen style with speckled art that's both mesmerizing and dryly hilarious. The dark tones of the art are warmed by slants of peach-hued winter sunlight; like the scary-funny story, darkness and light work in tandem ­surprisingly well. — Hornbook

Caldecott medalist Klassen's signature style is brought to bear on a Tyrolean tale imbued with equal parts comfort and creepiness. . . . One can only hope that children will tell and retell this reinterpretation many times to themselves throughout the years. Employing his customary pitch-perfect tonal gymnastics, only Klassen could inspire readers to want craniums as pals. — Kirkus