Crouching in a bookshop, at small-child height, in front of the picture books, I found myself laughing at familiar scenes. Here is Mrs Armitage in her rickety car, with great weights descending "kerplunk" as she hurtles along: "Bumpers? Who needs them?" Here is Mr Magnolia, with his sisters and parakeets and mice, and rhymes any two-year-old can bellow, "BOOT", "HOOT", "ROOTY-TOOT". Here is Angela Sprocket, with a pocket for everything, even the kitchen sink, and the magical Green Ship, steering into the eye of the storm. All are creations of Quentin Blake. Words come to mind: exuberant, chaotic, comic joyous.
On a table nearby are books for older children, in which Blake's drawings illuminate other people's texts. He may be benign, but he has a mercurial wit, a cartoonist's eye for the telling gesture, a spiky morality, a gleeful touch of anarchy. He can do smelliness well, such as the matted beard and clouds of stench in David Walliams's Mr Stink. And his long collaboration with Roald Dahl showed that he can do nastiness too: the horrible Twits, the grumpy grandmas and beastly aunts, the frightening Grand High Witch with her evil drool, the gloating red-tongued wolf of Revolting Rhymes. Yet any darkness is filtered by humour. For years now, children have seen these characters as he drew them, from the BFG in his sandals and Willy Wonka in his hat to Matilda with her tower of books.
Blake's scratchy, knobbly, angular style may be immediately recognisable, but he is still a master of the unexpected. Celebrating his 80th birthday on 16 December, he is tetchily pleased that his new exhibition at the
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