I recently challenged myself to read some of the “classics” I never read during school. There are so many ….
But lately, I find myself looking longingly at children’s books – some that don’t even have words, just beautiful illustrations that speak boldly. I am drawn in by the silent magic of whimsy and delight crinkling among the pages. By that urge to believe in all the possible explanations for the mysteries and wonders of the everyday. By that wish to understand the world in broad innocent terms not deterred or distorted by nuance or experience. Plus: a gander through a children’s book beats a romp through Proust any day.
So now my challenge has changed: I plan to let my bedside table – and thus possibly my dreams? – be filled with all the giddy and bright imaginings of youth.
Marcel can wait.