In the life of a reader--and by a reader I mean someone who has always read for pleasure--it is doubtful that any books have as much impact, in the end, as the ones we read as children. Though my memories of their plots and characters are foggy, the stunningly illustrated hardcover books by E. Nesbit that graced the shelves in my neighborhood library in Queens--The Enchanted Castle, The Bastables--contributed in some essential way to the person I was to become; and to this day I am heartbroken that soon after my family moved, the library sold these exquisite books for $2 each in their annual booksale in order to make room for more DVDs and books by R.L. Stine. ("No one reads E. Nesbit anymore," a friend said to me in defense of the library, and that is probably true--how can anyone read E. Nesbit if she has vanished from the libraries?)
The dreamlike memories I have of those foundational, mythically important books resurfaced when I first began A.S. Byatt's The Children's Book. The first 50 or so pages of the book were almost like therapy, transporting me back to the magic I thought had been irretrievably lost with childhood, and to the feelings associated with it--but this time, from an adult perspective, and with an awareness of the dark currents tugging just beneath the surface.
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