Few writers have inspired as much affection and interest among readers young and old as Lloyd Alexander. Few writers have won so many literary honors. At one point, however, it seemed unlikely that he would ever be a writer at all.
About Lloyd Alexander
An Interview with Lloyd Alexander
More About Lloyd Alexander
"My parents were horrified when I told them I wanted to be an author," Alexander recalls. "I was fifteen, in my last year of high school. My family pleaded with me to forget literature and do something sensible, such as find some sort of useful work.
"I had no idea how to find work, useful or otherwise. In fact, I had no idea how to become an author. If reading offered any preparation for writing there were grounds for hope. I had been reading as long as I could remember. Shakespeare, Dickens, Mark Twain, and so many others were my dearest friends and greatest teachers. I loved all the world s mythologies; King Arthur was one of my heroes; I played with a trash can lid for a knightly shield and my uncle's cane for the sword Excalibur. But I was afraid that not even Merlin the enchanter could transform me into a writer."
His parents could not afford to send him to college. And so when a Philadelphia bank had an opening for a messenger boy, he went to work there feeling, he says, "like Robin Hood chained in the Sheriff of Nottingham's dungeon. As a would-be writer, I thought it was a catastrophe. As
a bank employee, I could barely add or subtract, and had to count on my fingers."
Finally, having saved some money, he quit and went to a local college. Dissatisfied with not having learned enough to be a writer he left at the end of one term. Adventure, he decided was the best way. The United States had already entered World War II. Convinced that here was a chance for real deeds of derring-do, he joined the army -- and was promptly shipped to Texas where he became, in disheartening succession an artilleryman, a cymbal player in the band, an organist in the post chapel, and a first-aid man. At last, he was assigned to a military intelligence center in Maryland.
There he trained as a member of a combat team to be parachuted into France to work with the Resistance. "This, to my intense relief, did not happen," says Alexander. "Adventurous in imagination a real parachute jump would have scared me out of my wits."
Instead, Alexander and his group sailed to Wales to finish their training. This ancient, rough-hewn country, with its castles, mountains, and its own beautiful language made a tremendous impression on him. But not until years later did he realize he had been given a glimpse of another enchanted kingdom.
Alexander was sent to Alsace-Lorraine, the Rhineland, and southern Germany. When the war ended, he was assigned to a counterintelligence unit in Paris. Later he was discharged to attend the University of Paris. While a student he met a beautiful Parisian girl, Janine, and they soon married. Life abroad was fascinating, but eventually Alexander longed for home. "If I was to write anything worthwhile," he says, "I would have to be closer to my own roots."
The young couple went back to Drexel Hill, near Philadelphia, where Alexander wrote novel after novel which publishers unhesitatingly turned down. To earn his living, he worked as a cartoonist, advertising writer, layout artist, and associate editor for a small magazine. It took seven years of constant rejection before his first novel was at last published.
During the next ten years, he wrote for adults. And then he began writing for young people. It was, Alexander says, "the most creative and liberating experience of my life. In books for young people I was able to express my own deepest feelings far more than I ever could when writing for adults."
Doing historical research for Time Cat he discovered material on Welsh mythology. As Alexander says "It was as if all the hero tales, games dreams, and imaginings of my childhood had suddenly come back to me." The result was The Book of Three and
the other chronicles of Prydain, the imaginary kingdom being something like the enchanted land of Wales. In The Remarkable Journey of Prince Jen Alexander explored yet another fantastic world. Evoking an atmosphere of ancient China, this unique multi-layered novel was critically acclaimed as one of his finest works. Trina Schart Hyman illustrated The Fortune-tellers as a Cameroonian folktale sparkling with vibrant images, keen insight and delicious wit.
Most of the books have been written in the form of fantasy. But fantasy, Alexander believes, is merely one of many ways to express attitudes and feelings about real people, real human relationships and problems. "My concern is how we learn to be genuine human beings. I never have found out all I want to know about writing and realize I never will. All that writers can do is keep trying to say what is deepest in their hearts. If writers learn more from their books than do readers, perhaps I may have begun to learn."
copyright ? 2000 by Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers. All rights reserved.
The Gawgon and The Man
An Interview with Lloyd Alexander
On the occasion of the publication of The Gawgon and The Boy in May 2001, Michael O. Tunnell, an educator and a longtime friend of Lloyd Alexander, conducted an interview with the author.
Lloyd Alexander is one of the most respected and best loved of children’s-book authors. He has written over forty books for adults and children and has received most of the major children’s-book awards, including the Newbery Medal and the National Book Award. He is known for tales of high fantasy and adventure and for modern folktales.
Michael O. Tunnell is a professor in the Department of Teacher Education at Brigham Young University, where he teaches children’s literature. His professional articles about children’s books and reviews have been widely published, and he is the author of numerous books for young readers, as well as several children’s-literature reference texts. Dr. Tunnell has served on several children’s-book award committees, including the selection committee for the Newbery Medal.
The house in Drexel Hill, Pennsylvania, that has been Lloyd Alexander’s residence for more than thirty years is only blocks away from his boyhood home. Except for his time in Europe during and shortly after World War II, he has never lived anywhere else. Nevertheless, his stories of magic and adventure are filled with moving and accurate insights about the world.
The Gawgon and The Boy is unlike anything Lloyd Alexander has written for young readers—an autobiographical novel. In this, his most personal book, he introduces readers to a wild and eccentric cast of family members, including his old Aunt Annie, the eponymous Gawgon of the title, and mixes fantasy, raucous humor, and splendid shenanigans with the powerful narrative we have come to expect from an Alexander book. Just as Alexander himself has inspired scores of young readers, The Gawgon changes The Boy, David, forever. In one year, the old woman with the bright heart of a girl gives him a lifetime’s worth of memories—and the most important gift of all: belief in himself and the confidence to be whatever he wants to be.
In celebration of four decades of literary
contribution, I share this interview with Lloyd
Alexander fans. It was conducted in the magical
aura of his living room, where I was surrounded
by Fflewddur Fflam’s harp, Prince Jen’s ink stick,
and a stunning likeness of the author himself,
painted by Trina Schart Hyman. This was the
perfect atmosphere for listening to Lloyd
Alexander talk about his work.
MT: You have many fans who have been devoted to your work for years. I think they would like to know if certain aspects of Lloyd Alexander's life are the same as they remember. For instance, do you still rise at 4:00 a.m. so that you can write undisturbed?
LA: Not exactly. I've been getting up at 3:00 a.m. now. At my age, I need that extra hour to get my metabolism cranked up.
MT: Music has always been an important part of your life. Does it inspire your writing?
LA: Yes. What it's given me, on top of a lot of other things, is first a sense of tonality. The same way, I suppose, that a composer chooses a certain key, I need to hear the tonality of what I'm writing--the tone of voice, the key, the pitch. Literally, what it sounds like. Orchestration of characters is a lot like the orchestration of instruments. In other words, each character has a voice of his own, just as each instrument has a voice of its own. Combining those is definitely a sort of musical process.
Another thing is a sense of structure. Very often, to one degree or another, I can relate what I'm doing to a musical form. The Iron Ring, for example, is structured like a four-movement symphony. Gypsy Rizka follows the form of a divertimento.
MT: Do you read your writing aloud to yourself to get a sense of those tonalities?
LA: Yes, exactly. I think that writing should be readable aloud. You shouldn't have jawbreaking sentences and awkward structures. If you do, then you're in trouble. It should read easily.
MT: Do you still play the violin?
LA: Indeed I do, and I've made definite progress: noticeably worse. That's progress of a sort. I'll put it more positively: I've become positively worse. I can now play Mozart, Haydn, and Bach all with exactly the same degree of competence.
MT: Cats have been another of your loves and tend to appear prominently in many of your books, including your newest picture book, How the Cat Swallowed Thunder. You used to have half a dozen felines around the house. Is that still the case?
LA: No, sad to say. My dear Banjo and Jimmy Silvercat died within a year of each other. We still have Nikk, who's big enough to count for several cats.
MT: As a young man, you wanted to be an artist. You've done illustrations for Cricket magazine. Do you still spend time drawing?
LA: As little as possible. If I did more, I might get to like it too much and not want to do anything else. Then I'd be in very bad trouble. Once a year, I draw my own Christmas card, and everybody agrees that's quite enough.
MT: Have you acquired any new passions in the last few years? For instance, I hear you've become a baseball fan.
LA: Yes, I'm thoroughly caught up in baseball. I holler and shake my fist at the television--that's when the Phillies are losing, so I do it a lot. But I'm devoted to the Phillies; it's my home team, after all. I've understood they play an important role: designated losers, and they perform that function very well. I'm proud of them. As you pointed out to me, the Phillies never lose. They just come in second.
MT: Your picture-book texts have been illustrated by a variety of well-known illustrators: Evaline Ness, Ezra Jack Keats, Lester Abrams, Trina Schart Hyman, Diane Goode, and, most recently, Judith Byron Schachner. Please comment on the experience of having an illustrator interpret your story in pictures.
LA: The experience is basically one of envy. I envy their art; I wish I could do it. I envy their imagination, their gift of externalizing language, turning words into images; whereas I'm stuck with language and all its limitations.
MT: How do you feel about illustrators extending your text, even adding story elements, with their artwork?
LA: It amazes me that they transform the words into images that never would have occurred to me. In one case, Lester Abrams was illustrating The Four Donkeys, and for reasons best known to himself, he had a wonderful illustration including an otter. Now, there?s not a single otter mentioned in the text, but he was fond of that image and wanted to keep it. So I said, "Okay, I'll change the story and include an otter." He surprised me, but it's great when that happens.
MT: When people think of Lloyd Alexander, they think of fantasy stories, like the Prydain Chronicles. Is that a fair assessment?
LA: Yes, I couldn't ask for better.
MT: Three of your last four books--The Remarkable Journey of Prince Jen, The Arkadians, and The Iron Ring--are most certainly high fantasy tales. The Westmark series, the Vesper Holly books, and Gypsy Rizka were not, yet they still have a fantasy-like feel about them. Will there always be at least a touch of fantasy in future books by Lloyd Alexander?
LA: I'm sure there will be. Even The Gawgon and The Boy, which is realistic, has a lot of fantasy in it. Utterly wild fantasy. For example, Leonardo da Vinci's flying bicycle.
MT: Let's talk about your newest book, The Gawgon and The Boy. You have said that you try never to do (or write) the same sort of thing twice. How is it different from the other books you've written for young readers? How would you describe this book?
LA: That's a large-scale question. I'll try to sort it out. First, I should say my comments are the result of hindsight. I don't really know, analytically, what I'm doing until I've done it. Sometimes not even then. I always end up surprising myself, looking back at what I meant to do--or thought I meant to do--and what I finally did. Maybe that's how it should be. If writers don't surprise themselves, they probably won't surprise their readers.
But, yes, that's right. I don't want to do the same thing twice. Because, after I've finished a book, that part of my life is over. I can't go back and repeat it. Nor can any of us. I'm not the same person when I finish a book as I was when I began it.
So I always hope to do something different, and The Gawgon and The Boy is as different as anything I could imagine. I had never tried anything like it. I knew I was taking a big risk in trying something so unusual. But that's fine. My attitude has always been: No risk, no art.
All right, to describe it: Even when I finished writing it, I didn't know quite how to describe it. I'm thinking of Lucia Monfried, my ever-patient, long-suffering editor. She's put up with my foolishness for some years now. Lucia never admitted this to me, but I suspect that when she started reading the first draft, she probably said, "What, for heaven's sake, is this lunatic doing now?"
To clarify my own thinking, I described it to Lucia as a comedy-fantasy-melodrama-family saga-love story. It just now occurs to me that's a pretty good description of life. So I guess that's what it's about. Plus a lot of other things. Hearts broken and mended, loss and recovery, adventures of the imagination, how the real world gives raw material for fantasy--which has something to do with the creative process itself. I'm still trying to figure it out.
MT: The Gawgon and The Boy is a very personal story because it deals with your own childhood, with loved ones who are no longer here. Was it, therefore, more difficult to write?
LA: I'm tempted to say: the most difficult I've written. Except all the books have been difficult. I don't think I've ever written an easy book. You'd imagine, after close to fifty years of doing something, even a reasonably intelligent chimpanzee would acquire some facility at it. With me, that hasn't happened yet. With luck, it never will.
What I mean is that maybe it's a blessing in disguise. If each time you feel as if this is the first book you've ever written--"What are these blank pieces of paper and what am I supposed to do with them?"--that's because it is, in a sense, always the first book you've ever written. You've never been there before. Unexplored territory. If you try to create a world, it takes a while to become a naturalized citizen of it.
So, yes, difficult. Beyond the routine hollering and screaming. And, yes, the story is very personal. Everything I've written is very personal one way or another. But in this case, I mean it literally. As you say, it does deal specifically with a part of my own childhood, with my family, with people I dearly loved, all of them now long gone. But instead of happy nostalgia, I felt such an indescribable sense of loss, beyond grief, that I doubted I could begin the work, let alone finish it.
I had to make the conscious decision, every working day, whether to keep on or quit. My plans, outline, working notes were a shambles. I threw them away and found myself writing out of blind faith, hoping what I needed would be there when I needed it. And I guess it was, because I actually did finish the book.
The odd thing is, instead of feeling great relief that it was finally done, I didn't want to send it to Lucia. I didn't want to let it out of my hands. I felt bereft; I didn't want to let it go. I kept tinkering with it, rewriting it, polishing it. I felt like the UPS was going to take it away, and I was going to be running after the truck, saying: "Wait a minute, there's something else I want to do."
I had to give it up, and I felt very bad about that. I had the impression that they'd taken my fair-haired little boy. I know he's going to be in kind, affectionate hands. They'll wash his face, trim his hair a little bit, and give him a nice suit--and I'm never going to see him again! They're going to put him out in the world, and I may get the occasional postcard from him: "I'm doing okay." Or "I'm in trouble." But I'm never going to see him again; he's gone. I found that a very painful sensation.
MT: I remember your saying you had these same bereft feelings when you finished the Prydain Chronicles.
LA: Absolutely true.
MT: But was this more acute because you were writing about your own childhood? Did it make parting with this manuscript more difficult than with Prydain?
LA: I think so, but it's hard to compare relative misery. I remember distinctly that at the end of The High King I felt bereft, but it's hard to say whether it was as bad or worse because time does heal wounds, occasionally. But hey, The Gawgon and The Boy is my latest book, so I'll say: "Yes, it felt worse than any of the others!"
MT: Your first books, written for adults in the 1950s, were autobiographical novels (And Let the Credit Go, Janine Is French, My Love Affair with Music, My Five Tigers). With The Gawgon and The Boy, do you feel as if you have come full circle?
LA: I'd say full spiral. If you say circle, a circle is closed, and you can't get into it again. A spiral keeps coiling around, and that implies starting fresh all over again. However, The Gawgon and The Boy seems qualitatively different from my adult books--it feels different. There are things that happen that are very painful, and I don't think I dealt with that kind of emotion in the other books. They were lighter, funnier, though The Gawgon and The Boy has its share of humor, too.
MT: What compelled you to write The Gawgon and The Boy at this particular time?
LA: It's a mystery, just as any creation, at heart, is a mystery. I doubt that any writer can fully explain that. But here's one partial answer. Writing for close to fifty years has been a long journey, a marvelous one through a lot of different worlds. But I guess I was homesick. I wanted to go home and be with my family a little while before setting off again.
MT: Readers will want to know what parts of the story are"true." In general, how would you respond to that question?
LA: The book is an autobiography--in form, obviously. And, yes, in content as well. The reader is entitled to ask: "Is this true?" If they touch us, entertain us, make us laugh or cry, all stories are true, as true as anything can be. True, that is, in our imagination. But instead of asking, "What's true?" maybe the question should be: "What's real?"
So, yes, it is real. I hope the reader hears the ring of reality even in its most outrageously improbable moments. My father, for example, trying to sell water from the River Jordan and diluting it with tap water--nobody could make that up; nor his scheme for deodorizing public lavatories. And all the rest, including the Mexican jumping beans and the Irish shillely.
But The Gawgon and The Boy is also a novel, with the constraints--and freedoms--of a novel. I admit to bending the time frame a little and chronologically shifting the actual sequence of events occasionally. Even the most scrupulous author needs a little elbow room. Memory has built-in faults, misrecollections despite all efforts to be accurate. And I confess to sharing the attitude of Fflewddur Fflam in Prydain: Facts can be so drab; poor things, they need a little color to brighten them up.
And The Gawgon herself--yes, quite real, quite true. I wish everybody could have had their own Gawgon at some point in their lives. The books she gave me are still on my shelf. And the last line of my story is absolutely accurate.
MT: The Gawgon is named Aunt Annie in your book. Did you have an Aunt Annie?
LA: Yes, I certainly did.
MT: And did your Aunt Annie influence your life much as David's Aunt Annie in the book influenced his?
LA: Yes, and that's why I said that I wish everyone could have had an Aunt Annie of their own. It was a great thing, and I don't know how often it happens. These days I don't know whether young people have someone--I don't think it matters what their age; in my case it was a very old woman--who can somehow move your mind or your emotions or spark something inside yourself. It could be a teacher, and logically it should be a teacher. It could be a parent--it should be a parent, but sometimes it isn't. It is a great thing if there is somebody who can really do something quite profound for you, and I think this happens most often when you're younger. I was very lucky to have my Aunt Annie.
MT: I see similarities in The Gawgon and The Boy and one of your first children's books, Time Cat. For example, both books include vignettes featuring the main characters in various periods of history. Did you think about the relationship or similarities as you were writing?
LA: No. In fact, until you mentioned it, it never entered my mind. It's true that Time Cat involved time travel to different historical periods, but the context is so different from The Gawgon and The Boy, and so is the tonality. Even though Time Cat had an episode about Leonardo da Vinci and so did The Gawgon and The Boy, the stories have a very different feel about them. It may be because that tale--all the tales--in Time Cat are pure fantasy, while the tales in The Gawgon and The Boy are embedded in a very hard realistic story. You get the sense that Jason and Gareth, the time cat, have actually traveled back to each period of history. But in The Gawgon and The Boy, the adventures--including the adventure with Leonardo--are adventures only in David's imagination.
I put those fantastic episodes in The Gawgon and The Boy, hoping that readers would be interested in the people and events. I would like nothing better than if those episodes sparked their imaginations. It would be great if someone young or old would say, "Who's this Sherlock Holmes? I've got to look into that." What a service that would be to Sherlock Holmes and the world at large! Or "Who's this guy Napoleon? I've never heard of him. Sounds interesting."Or "Who's da Vinci? What is this painting, the Mona Lisa? I've never heard of that. I'll have to go and look at it."
MT: The stories in your books, even the fantasies, reflect the art, literature, and history of past ages: the ancient Celts in Prydain; the ancient Egyptians in Time Cat; the flavor of Napoleonic France in the Westmark series, The Marvelous Misadventures of Sebastian, and The Gawgon and The Boy; and so on. Please comment on this.
LA: I naturally gravitate to the venues, or historical periods, that I grew up with in books. For example, as far back as I can remember, I dearly loved ancient Egypt. I seem to work in the grain of my memory, or the grain of my temperament. Certainly the Irish episode in Time Cat and the Celtic setting of Prydain grew out of my love for King Arthur and for Irish and Celtic mythology. It made perfect sense for me to resonate with what I loved as a kid. In The Gawgon and The Boy, you can see many of the subjects I dearly loved as a child, the times and places I would fantasize about. I even drew pictures of my imaginings, as did David. I was devoted to Sherlock Holmes, fascinated with Napoleon and da Vinci--and I still am.
MT: What can you say about the themes that surface in your stories?
LA: I wonder if each one of us--not only writers--does not have some kind of large-scale theme that is our life. I mention writers only because it probably shows up more clearly. A friend recently brought to my attention that most of my books involve a journey. I suddenly thought: "Is it possible that my big theme, my major theme, my life's theme, is a journey?"
MT: Are the physical journeys in your books a metaphor for life's journey?
LA: Absolutely. But it occurs to me that each journey in each of my stories is of a different nature and involves different things. Taran's quest in the Prydain Chronicles is a metaphorical journey in which we learn how to be genuine human beings. In the Westmark series, Theo's journey is a way of learning how we manage to stay human beings. We require certain ideals. In Westmark, those ideals are sorely tested, and sometimes they get bent out of shape, sometimes they break. In other words, if we learn how to be human, how do we stay human without being corrupted by such things as violence? How do we keep our ideals? How do we keep what we learned?
MT: In The Gawgon and The Boy, are we seeing the early shaping of those ideals?
LA: Yes. It's the formation of a certain attitude, just the very beginning of it. David is a kid; he doesn't have an attitude. He hasn't acquired that yet.
MT: What about The Iron Ring?
LA: The Iron Ring is almost a continuation of The Remarkable Journey of Prince Jen. It is essentially a spiritual journey. It's on a different level somehow--a spiritual level.
MT: Is it true that you don't read your books once they're published?
LA: I never read a book once it's been printed. I had to read the Prydain books--and Westmark--while I was working on the series, but once the series was done, I've never looked at any of them again.
MT: All your female characters are known for being feisty, independent, intelligent, and just plain fascinating--Eilonwy, Mallory, Isabel, Nur-Jehan, Mickel, Vesper, Voyaging Moon, Joy-in-the-Dance, Rizka, Mirri, and now The Gawgon. Why are they all such strong women?
LA: To me, that's reality. That's my personal experience with girls, young women, old women. I've never met any other kind, and they're the ones who have furnished my imagination. I don't have the raw material in my mind to create any other kind. They're sisters under the skin. I wish they all could meet. I think they'd like each other.
I've got to add an amazing anecdote--and this is exactly as it happened. I had taken the manuscript of The Gawgon and The Boy to a mailing service to have it shipped off to Lucia. The woman at the counter, a total stranger, long past middle age, phoned the next day to tell me the package had been delivered. Then, to my astonishment, she added, "You've had so many great young heroines in your books, I wish you'd write about a great old heroine." I told her I just had. "Bless you," she said.
MT: Lloyd Alexander always, no matter how serious the subject about which he writes, works humor into his stories. Why is that so important to you?
LA: I like to laugh. I think everybody should laugh more often. That's what helps to keep us sane.
MT: Do you feel comic relief is necessary in a novel dealing with very serious topics and in which there is a great deal of tension?
LA: Yes. They don't call it comic relief for nothing. It's a relief valve. Though there are exceptions, I'm not sure a reader generally can stand too much intensity or serious, hard emotion for a long period of time without some kind of break. I don't know whether that's accurate or not, but for me it is. At some point you've got to lighten the tone. It's like the dentist keeps grinding on your tooth, and you say, "Give me a break. Let me smile for a minute."
MT: The Westmark series is an example. It deals with a serious, hard-hitting theme: how war may destroy the human spirit. Yet you punctuate the horrors of war with humor, which you feel is an essential part of telling this story.
LA: Yes, but let me put it this way: It's essential to me. If I didn't have that, I would get too intense. As I said, laughter is what keeps us sane. After all, Shakespeare does this. Virtually all of his tragedies have some comic moments.
MT: What's fan mail like these days?
LA: There's a lot of it. Best yet, we're going into two generations now, close to three. People who read my books when they were kids are grown up now and reading the books to their own kids. They write and tell me so. I'm deeply, deeply touched--and grateful.
MT: What can you tell readers about your next novel?
LA: Easy answer: absolutely nothing. I haven't the least idea what I'm going to do. Well, I can say this much: I learned a lot from writing The Gawgon and The Boy. What I learned, I don't know. I do know it was something important, but I can't exactly put it in words. But I'll find out. Next time. In other words, I hope to apply it, whatever it is, in my next book.
MT: I asked you this question over ten years ago. I'd like to ask it again. Is writing for young readers, in your own words,"the happiest discovery of all" for Lloyd Alexander?
LA: Yes, and it keeps getting even more so. For me, that's pretty close to miraculous.
Titles Available by Lloyd Alexander
The Gawgon and The Boy
How the Cat Swallowed Thunder
The Iron Ring
0-525-45597-3 (HC) 0-14-130348-4 (PB)
The House Gobbaleen
0-525-45415-2 (HC) 0-14-038073-6 (PB)
0-525-44849-7 (HC) 0-14-056233-8 (PB)
The Remarkable Journey of Prince Jen
The El Dorado Adventure
The Illyrian Adventure
The First Two Lives of Lukas-Kasha
The Town Cats and Other Tales
0-525-41430-4 (HC) 0-14-130122-8 (PB)
The Wizard in the Tree
The Cat Who Wished to Be a Man
The Marvelous Misadventures of Sebastian
THE WESTMARK TRILOGY
COMING IN PAPERBACK IN SUMMER 2001
The Beggar Queen
"I never became a world traveler,
But I did become a writer,
which is pretty much the same." --Lloyd Alexander
DUTTON CHILDREN'S BOOKS
A division of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers
345 Hudson Street
New York, New York 10014
Find Books by Lloyd Alexander
To keep up-to-date, input your email address, and we will contact you on publication