I love reading children’s books. I love them for their apparent simplicity, and the depth hidden just beneath. I love them for their touch of myth, of greatness (for doesn’t every child think their life is the stuff of myths?). I love them for their power, their pure emotional truth and strength.
Very rarely do I love a novel because it makes me feel like I am a child again (in the best way possible). But The Magic City…E Nesbit turned me back into a child.
When you read this book, you remember things. You remember how a few odds and ends could be a mighty civilization. You remember the house you dreamed for yourself, the pets and friends you created. You remember a world where everything was both something else and itself, all at the same time.
As I read this adventure, I remembered my own adventures as a child. The worlds I had created, and long since forgotten. And a believed, just for a moment here and there–that somehow, somewhere, it was all real.