Dusk by Uri Shulevitz (review)

In this counterpart to Shulevitz's Dawn (BCCB 4/75), an old man and his grandson bundle up against the winter chill and take an evening stroll in the city. Even at nightfall the city is still bustling, and the darkening sky proves to be an excellent backdrop for the brilliant display of street and holiday lights that turn the city into a glittering wonderland. The text is a dreamy trickle that bursts out occasionally in ripples of antic nursery-style rhyme (several busy shoppers utter bouncy verses about their shopping plans) and then slows to a soothing stillness of only a few words ("Lights// here and there"). The words are just a voiceover for the drama of the visuals, though: Shulevitz plays his limpid watercolors like a violin, allowing the smoky teal of a winter sky to give way to a chiaroscuro of lavender and ochre that renders the stylized city streets radiant with twilight. The holiday is magical yet kid-level robust—shop displays with falling snow and vibrant nutcracker figures; the gleam of menorahs and Christmas trees in beaming windows, which combine with marquee displays and rows of shining headlights to illuminate the city. This is an experience rather than a plot, but it's wise about the seductive enchantment of seasonal joys and the enticing mysteries of an adult life that goes on downtown after youthful bedtimes.