Great children’s books move young hearts, yes. Still, they also carry the tremendous common heart that beats in the chest of humanity by articulating in the language of children, which is the language of simplicity and absolute sincerity, the elemental truths of being: what it means to love, what it means to be mortal, what it means to live with our fragilities and our frissons. As such, children’s books are miniature works of philosophy, works of wonder and wonderment that bypass our ordinary resistances and cerebral modes of understanding, entering the backdoor of consciousness with their soft, surefooted gait to remind us who and what we are.
This is something I have always believed, and so I have always turned to children’s books — classics like, which I reread once a year every year for basic soul-maintenance, and modern masterpieces like — as mighty instruments of existential calibration. But I never thought I would write one.
And then I did:( ) is a labor of love three years in the making, illustrated by the uncommonly talented and sensitive , whom I asked for the honor after she staggered me with the painting that became the cover of .
While a beloved young human inspires the storyand the poetry of existence, time, and chance, genetics, and gender, love and death, evolution and infinity — concepts often too abstract for the human mind to fathom, usually more accessible to the young imagination; ideas made fathomable in the concrete, the finite life of one tiny, unusual creature dwelling in a pile of compost amid an English garden.
At the heart of the story, excerpted below, is an invitation not to mistake difference for defect and to recognize diversity as nature’s fulcrum of resilience and a wellspring of beauty across the accordion scales of time and space.
Long ago, before half the stars that dot the sky was born, and before the mountains rose reaching for them, a giant ocean covered the Earth. One day, something strange happened in the big sea — a change so mysterious and magnificent that it was given a special name: mutation.
From this mutation, life was born from non-life: The first living creatures — tinier than a grain of sand, smaller than the tip of the eyelash of a mouse — came into being.
Time tended to them kindly —
they grew bigger and bigger,
curious and more curious.
Soon — which in cosmic time means millions and millions of years — they crawled out of the ocean and onto the land. Not knowing whether they would find a home there, some brave early explorers carried their homes on their backs.
And so snails took to the Earth.
One autumn afternoon a cosmic blink ago, a human — a retired scientist from London’s Natural History Museum — stopped mid-stride on his walk when he noticed a most unusual garden snail in a pile of compost. It was smaller than the other snails. Its shell was darker than theirs. One of its tentacles had trouble unspooling. And because the Snail’s tentacles are both its fingers and its eyes, this little Snail didn’t feel and see the world the way most snails do.
But the strangest thing was something else still: The spiral of its shell coiled in the opposite direction from other snails — it spiraled left instead of right, the same direction thethe Sun.
The older man picked up the little Snail tenderly and marveled at it.
It just so happened (isn’t Chance lovely?) that a few days earlier, he had heard an interview with a snail researcher from an important university on the radio. Doctor Angus Davidson was his name. So he sent this unusual little Snail to Doctor Angus’s laboratory. Maybe its strangeness held some beautiful secret waiting to be unlocked.
Carefully, the elderly scientist packed the little Snail into a cozy box and sent it on its way.
When it arrived at the famous snail laboratory, Doctor Angus named it Jeremy, after the English politician Jeremy Corbyn. (Grownups believe this big round world has sides, so they divide their political left and right, like shoes or gloves. Because Jeremy Corbyn belongs to the left, Doctor Angus thought it would be funny to name the little lefty Snail after him.)
But although Jeremy the Snail was given a boy name, Jeremy the Snail was neither he nor she — Jeremy, like all land snails, was both.
Jeremy was they.
One of the wonders of snails is that they can make babies without a mate because every Snail has a male and female body. Such a great body is called a hermaphrodite.
If a hermaphrodite makes babies alone, they are almost exactly like their parents. But when two parents create a baby together, the baby is partly like each.
And because diversity is always lovelier than sameness and makes communities stronger and better able to, snails prefer to make babies in pairs.
This is how it happens: When a snail finds a partner, they face each other, gently touching their tentacles to feel like they like each other. And if they do, they glide their bodies alongside one another in a slow double embrace until their baby-making parts fit together like puzzle pieces. Then, they gently pierce each other with tiny spears called “love darts,” which contain their genes — bodies’ building blocks.
Genes are like tiny seeds your parents plant in the garden that becomes your body — your special combination of sources makes you you, your body garden, unlike anyone else’s. Genes are how life talks to the future. Your genes decide how tall you grow, what color your eyes are, and how your thumbs are shaped.
Many of your gene seeds come abloom in your body garden — you get to see, to be, the flowers they become. But not every one of your seeds will bloom — some only sprout when they are near other seeds just like them. These shy seeds may lay dormant in the soil and only bloom in generations of gardens — in your children, your children’s children, or your children’s children’s children. Those seeds are called recessive genes.
Jeremy was so unusual because, in their body, a rare recessive gene came abloom — one of Jeremy’s great-great-grand-parents must havethis dormant seed on until it awakened to make Jeremy’s shell coil in the opposite direction.
Jeremy’s shell was just the most obvious expression of that mutation. Still, the entire soft body hidden inside was also a mirror image of almost every other Snail’s body — a condition known as situs inversus, Latin for “inverted internal organs.”
In his twenty years of working with snails, Doctor Angus had never before seen a lefty. He believes that situs inversus is rarer than one in 10,000, probably one in 100,000, possibly even one in a million.
Some humans, too, have such wondrous mirror-image bodies — it is just as rare in us as in snails. If you had situs inversus, your heart would be on the right side — the wrong side because almost everyone’s heart is on the left side.
Jeremy’s heart was also on the right-wrong side, as were all his vital body parts — which meant that Jeremy could only do the double-embrace dance with another snail with situs inversus, or else the puzzle pieces wouldn’t fit together to make baby snails.
Life can be lonesome when your mate is one in a million. And Doctor Angus didn’t want Jeremy to be lonely. He also knew that if Jeremy had babies with another lefty snail, scientists could study this very rare gene and better understand situs inversus in snails and humans.
So, he went on the radio again and appealed to theto help find Jeremy, a lefty mate.
Moved by Jeremy’s story, people far and wide got on their knees amid gardens, grasslands, and compost piles, determined to find Jeremy’s inverted puzzle piece. Within weeks, not one but two potential mates were found — one by a young Englishwoman who kept snails as pets and another by a snail farmer in Spain.
Before the watercolor sunsets beneath the endpapers, the story ends the same way life lives itselgh us — unpredictable, heartbreaking, and redemptive, forever plantingabloom in some future garden, maybe tomorrow, maybe long after the stars that dot this sky is gone,. Ne,stars are born to shine upon new hearts beating to the same primeval pulse-beat of cosmic chance.
, out on February 2, came alive thanks to the invaluable stewardship of my longtime friend, neighbor, and collaborator Claudia Zoe Bedrick — the one-woman powerhouse behind Brooklyn-based independent children’s publisher .
I have chosen to donate all my author’s proceeds from the book to the, whose quarter-century devotion to funding research and scientific collaborations sheds light on congenital heart conditions to help young humans with unusual hearts live longer, wider lives.
Special thanks to my biologist palfor assaying the solidity of the science, my former partner and darling friend for hand-lettering the cover text, and the fine journalists at The Guardian for reporting the on which this labor of love is based.