Jane Yolen, 1949-2026

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I was talking with Jane Yolen once, in her house in St. Andrews, Scotland. I told her how much I admired her prolific output of books--something like 400 then, though it's grown since. She tried to duck the compliment by saying, "Well, yours are so much longer than mine."

"I've read Owl Moon," I said. (For those who don't know, it's an illustrated story sold as a 'children's book' but actually a gem of a prose poem of a reminiscence, possibly true and possibly not.) "How many drafts did that take?"

"A few hundred," she admitted.

"I rest my case," I said.

And now Jane's gone. It doesn't seem possible. She was one of those people you expect to just go on and on forever, getting a little older and wiser every year, but always there.

Jane was a journalist, a poet, an editor, and a writer of books both short and long. She had many friends and countless admirers. And she deserved every one of them.

She came to Philadelphia once, to do a reading at a children's bookstore, so I was there. Many parents had brought their little ones to hear her and the store had laid out toys to keep them occupied in the build-up to the event. When it was time for her to read, the parents rounded up their reluctant children, who had no idea who this lady might be or, indeed, what an author was. The kids were all grouchy and complaining about being taken away from the toys. And then Jane began to speak.

Her words were oil upon troubled water.

She got the children's attention, made them forget the toys, and read to them. They listened raptly. Then she took questions. Her answers were all lucid, respectful, and without condescension. She spoke to them as equals and they responded in kind.

Jane could talk to adults like that too.

So many of us are in mourning today! But sadness is the price we must pay for riches bestowed. And Jane was well worth how you and are feeling now. Many times over.

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