At the heart of all Irina Kotlyarevskaya’s books lies a single philosophy—rarely spelled out, yet unmistakably present in every story: a child is not a “future adult,” but a complete human being
here and now. Their feelings are not provisional, their fears are not exaggerated, and imagination is not a side effect of childhood—it is its primary way of knowing the world. Contemporary childhood unfolds under constant stimulation. Screens deliver ready-made images, instant solutions, and immediate gratification.
In such a landscape, imagination is increasingly denied the space to work on its own terms. Kotlyarevskaya’s books move deliberately in the opposite direction. They do not accelerate, overload, or impose. They create a pause—a rare and precious state in which a child can finally hear themselves. Imagination in these stories is not an escape from reality, but a way of entering it more deeply.
The Lyubomixes, the Zemlinikses, Uncle Sam, or the girl who dreams of becoming president are not abstract figures; they are inner roles through which a child learns to live with emotion, test boundaries, explore responsibility, care, leadership, and attentiveness to the world. Each character embodies a fundamental human function: love, connection to nature, thinking, will.
A central place in the author’s worldview is given to the idea of gentle knowledge. Learning here is never framed as obligation or competition. It unfolds through play, observation, comparison, and wonder. The child does not “receive information”—they discover it. That is why these books are rich in visual detail, encyclopedic fragments, and exercises that train attention and logic. These are not tests or lessons, but invitations to a conversation with the world. Equally important is what these books refuse to do: they do not pit child against adult. On the contrary, they consistently affirm connection and shared presence. The Lyubomixes are born from words of love spoken by adults.
The Zemlinikses teach responsibility through example. Uncle Sam explores the world without conflict. The story of the girl-president speaks of trust and support. The adult here is neither controller nor judge, but a source of warmth, a point of reference, a partner. The bodily and emotional dimensions of these books deserve special attention. Hugs, laughter, warmth, touch, the feeling of safety—these are not background details, but essential elements of the narrative.
Kotlyarevskaya restores to childhood its right to be slow, sensuous, and alive. In a world where emotions are increasingly reduced to emojis, this becomes an act of cultural resistance. The philosophy of these books is also profoundly humanistic.
There is no division into “right” and “wrong,” “successful” and “lagging behind.” There is diversity—national, cultural, gendered, personal. The child learns to see the world as plural and to accept this plurality as the norm, not the exception. Ultimately, Irina Kotlyarevskaya’s books speak about what matters most: the right to inner freedom. The freedom to dream, to make mistakes, to ask questions, to be sensitive and attentive.
The freedom to be bored as the beginning of creativity. The freedom to be oneself without the constant pressure of external evaluation. This is literature that does not demand quick reactions. It demands presence. And that is precisely why it stays with the reader for a long time—as a quiet, reliable inner voice that once taught a simple truth: wonder is possible, if there is love, attention, and imagination in the world.