Like many others, I read this in grade school and loved it. I think I read it several times. By now I'd forgotten every name, every place, every plot point. Every single detail except the radiant warmth I'd felt for this book, such that if it was mentioned I would immediately pipe up that I loved it.
I began reading this the night I received it (thank you, book fairy!, hugs to youuuuuuu!), spine curled into a C in my beloved reading chair, inviting the back hump
so common in Korean women of older generations. The book was much thinner than I remembered. However, this copy, an older printing with yellowing pages, had ink that smudged if a finger was left too long on it, just like I remembered...when I held paperbacks with my thumb in the crease, long ago. Wrapped in an oh-so-soft fleece blanket, the only sounds being the tick-tock of a gigantic clock propped up in a chair in front of me and a muffled whooshing from cars driving down the nearby road, I began reading of Meg and Charles and promptly fell asleep. In the murffley drooping early stages of nodding off, I would read a few lines and then sleep, few lines, sleep, few lines...zzzzz.
This wasn't out of boredom; I know many times a childhood favorite doesn't measure up when read as an adult. No, this was a sleep of comfort, of trust. I don't need to finish the book again (or for the first time again, since so far nothing seems to be triggering that memory flood that sometimes happens) to know that I still feel the warmth, still love this book. I'll try to read a few more pages tonight, before I fall asleep with it.