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The way my life is recently, I'd be lucky to be able to finish reading the headline of the Post before having to attend to something else. So in the absense of any meaningful free time in my life, I will be reviewing books from years past, the glory days when I could actually curl up on the couch and fall into a story. Or in the case of Roald Dahl, through the scary trap-door into bizarro world of teacher-witches, crazy chocolate factory owners, and insects live and chat with youngsters inside of giant pieces of fruit. I devoured authors like locusts consume crops, I'd inhale entire oeuvres if the writing merited it. And Dahl is the only one of those authors that I can remember with any clarity - mainly because his books were a little more horrifying than kids books are generally meant to be. The Witches had that sinister streak - these were real witches he was writing about, not friendly elixir mixing broombats, but nasty, bald, bloodthirsty types - animalistic in their ability to sniff out children as prey. There are a few images from The Witches that I will never recover from: the witches banishment of a local girl into a framed painting, where she spent her days forlornly looked out into the pasture, until she disappeared altogether from the scene. Or the realization - and acceptance - of the main character, having been turned into a mouse by the witches, and knowing that he could not return to boyhood....or the long lifespan that human beings enjoy as compared to a rodent. Even then, it was a shock to read: this child knew he would not live long, and was okay with his fate. Keep in mind.... THIS IS A CHILDREN'S BOOK! But despite the macabre lining - or maybe because of it? - I found this one of the most enduring memories of my childhood literary adventures.

2022-11-14 13:42