A Sobering Conclusion
Recently, a tragedy occurred in my life. I looked at the stacks on my bedside table to pick out a new book and discovered I had run out of “new” books to read. Now, it wasn’t a complete catastrophe, as I had slated on my to do list the transfer, unpacking and sorting of the library of novels that had gone into storage when I moved into the country. These were books I had read at least 6 years ago, and many not since I was a teenager or preteen, which is quite a bit further back. So I went down to the basement, and located the correct plastic tubs, and began to go through them. There were a number of books I was saving, but probably wouldn’t read again, and ones that I had collected just in case I ever wanted to read them. But the majority of books were books I’d read and now had no idea what they were about , and some that were given to me that I had no interest in reading at the time. A Bonus! A blessing! Here were literally 2 tubs full of books that were “new”. And since I couldn’t very well put them up on the shelf UNTIL I knew if they were worth saving or not, I got busy about my reading.
I expected to rediscover a few good tales, and find out a few things the second time around. But I was surprised. I read first a series of books by John Bellairs, beginning with “The House with a Clock in its Walls”. Its the story of a young boy whose parents die, and he has to go live with an uncle who is rich of course and who also turns out to be a magician. I expected it to be a little predictable and to be less enchanted. But I devoured the stories. The writing was excellent, the characters believable, and the plots interesting. This time around I also “got “the “inside-joke” references the author kept making for his adult audience that I couldn’t make sense of when I was 10. But the more books I read, the more I felt a little odd. And I realized by the last book I had of his the reason for my discomfort was that the protagonist was always best friends with an older man or woman (about the age of the protagonists grandparents). This protagonist has only one other close friend, if any, and spends a lot of time with this older friend alone at their house, or off having adventures, or on overnight trips to local haunted places. Being older, I wondered why the parents allowed this - weren’t they worried about their child? And I was saddened because I remember reading the books at 9 and 10, and not giving that a second thought. I remember wishing that there was an older person who lived around my house that I could have adventures with, who knew about supernatural things and would make me chocolate cakes. I wasn’t suspecting the friendly priest of anything except maybe being too practical to see an evil ghost was trying to possess the young boy.
I came to realize that the problem was that I and the world had changed too much to recapture the feelings I had reading the book as a child. The books haven’t changed - they are still a good read, and I strongly recommend if you haven’t read them to get copies at your library or bookstore. But you’ll enjoy them more if you read them to a child who hasn’t yet lost their innocence, if such a thing exists anymore.
I expected to rediscover a few good tales, and find out a few things the second time around. But I was surprised. I read first a series of books by John Bellairs, beginning with “The House with a Clock in its Walls”. Its the story of a young boy whose parents die, and he has to go live with an uncle who is rich of course and who also turns out to be a magician. I expected it to be a little predictable and to be less enchanted. But I devoured the stories. The writing was excellent, the characters believable, and the plots interesting. This time around I also “got “the “inside-joke” references the author kept making for his adult audience that I couldn’t make sense of when I was 10. But the more books I read, the more I felt a little odd. And I realized by the last book I had of his the reason for my discomfort was that the protagonist was always best friends with an older man or woman (about the age of the protagonists grandparents). This protagonist has only one other close friend, if any, and spends a lot of time with this older friend alone at their house, or off having adventures, or on overnight trips to local haunted places. Being older, I wondered why the parents allowed this - weren’t they worried about their child? And I was saddened because I remember reading the books at 9 and 10, and not giving that a second thought. I remember wishing that there was an older person who lived around my house that I could have adventures with, who knew about supernatural things and would make me chocolate cakes. I wasn’t suspecting the friendly priest of anything except maybe being too practical to see an evil ghost was trying to possess the young boy.
I came to realize that the problem was that I and the world had changed too much to recapture the feelings I had reading the book as a child. The books haven’t changed - they are still a good read, and I strongly recommend if you haven’t read them to get copies at your library or bookstore. But you’ll enjoy them more if you read them to a child who hasn’t yet lost their innocence, if such a thing exists anymore.
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