Apparently my preferred reading level is somewhere between picture book and young adult.
I am out of excuses to buy those books for the kids. T.R.’s preferences are not mine and Syd is more grown-up than I am as far as choosing reading. Sartre anyone? How about a little Dostoyevsky? Been there, done that, got bummed out. Now I get to buy kid books for myself.
As a side note, I have said many times that the entire purpose of the reading list in my junior year of high school English class was to induce depression. We read A Separate Peace, The Stranger, Crime and Punishment, Madame Bovary, Lord of the Flies, and Othello. Maybe poor Mr. Johsens just couldn’t face another batch of stupid essays from incoherent kids. He retired after that year and our class gave him a pig named Desdemona. It probably wasn’t fair to name his future bacon, but Desdemona was doomed.
What kid books have is a sense of plot. I’ve been thinking a lot about plot lately because I need to figure out how to find some. The characters have important things at stake. They care. They change. Even when bad things happen, there is a sense that there will be a satisfying resolution.
I am tempted to quote Oscar Wilde here on the subject of fiction. I like fiction.
Today I get to read Rumo and his Miraculous Adventures.