jamiereadthis
Written on May 1, 2009
They are not children’s books. But, somehow, they are the books that belong to the world children inhabit already, the ones that give us, all grown up, merely a taste and a too-brief pass into the way we used to have the world ourselves.
This is one such book, striking and surreal and under glass. Perfect for now, and saved up for one day, maybe.
“It had been a time of snow and a time of death and of closed bedrooms— and she had arrived bang on the other side of it, her eyes dimming for joy because a boy had said, ‘You with the dimples.’
“Woodwind players are walking at the sides of the road. You walk as fast as you can, and wish at the same time that the road would never end.”