Britain’s John Burningham on his latest creation—and his mysterious life

Edwardo: The Horriblest Boy in the Whole Wide World is about an ordinary boy who is constantly told he’s messy, nasty, and noisy—and he acts accordingly. His life is eventually transformed when he’s praised, instead of criticized. What inspired you to write the story?

God, I don’t know. I found that an extremely difficult book to do.

What was the toughest part, figuring out the transition?

Yes. There was a sequence in which he throws things and he’s untidy. I couldn’t find a solution for the change around. It all looks straightforward now, but I found it really hard to resolve that end of the story. I suppose it’s very anti-“what going on,” particularly in this country. Wayward youth is being given a thing called an ASBO, which brands you as an undesirable person. And 13-, 14-, 15-, and 16-year-old boys are dying to have these things.

What exactly is an ASBO?

It’s an Anti-Social Behaviour Order, and it’s handed out by the police. The idea is that if you give one of these to some young kid, they’re going to think, “Oh dear, I’ve been told I’m antisocial. I must mend my ways.” In fact, what they’re all doing is saying, “I must find a way so that I can have one.”

You’re the only person I know who went to Summerhill, A. S. Neill’s legendary school.

I did spend a lot of time in the art room, and of course because I went to Summerhill, I was allowed to do that. A normal curriculum now would not have allowed me the freedom to do that. So for that, I’m very grateful. A lot of stuff I didn’t learn, but I did spend much time drawing and mucking about with paint.

Did you begin to develop your style?

No. I was a conscientious objector [in the 1950s]. When I finished two and a half years of alternative military service, I didn’t know what to do. I just happened to meet a friend of mine, and I said, “What are you doing?” He said, “Oh, I’m at the Central School of Art [in London] doing a combined course of illustration and graphic design.” And I thought, “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

How did you get into children’s books?

After I did three years there, I still didn’t know what the heck I wanted to do. But I did eventually have this idea for Borka: The Adventures of a Goose with No Feathers. Somebody said, “Finish it, and I’ll take it to a publisher.” It was really extremely rough. The dummy that was taken around actually still exists, and it looks like a seven-year-old has done it. But anyway, it was published [in 1963], and it won the Kate Greenaway Medal.

I heard that you met your wife, Helen Oxenbury, in art school.

That’s right. Helen wasn’t doing illustration. She was in the theater design department.

Did you ever think you’d both end up creating children’s books?

Not at all. I mean, Helen was involved in doing stage design, and she didn’t start in doing children’s books until she had two small children. She’d seen me, and she probably thought, “Well, I can do that better. It’s something I can do from home.” Things move in mysterious ways, really.

How long have you been married?

I’ll leave the math to you. I think we got married in ’64, ’63. So it’s a hell of a long time.

Are the two of you ever competitive, like Lennon and McCartney were?

Not really. Probably one of the reasons that we as two people in the same field have survived together is because we both believe the other one is better. I believe she’s better than me, and she believes I’m better than her.