On the evenings when we are less busy than we are other on evenings, I read aloud to my children. Currently we are reading a delightful book: Peter Pan in Scarlet. It is a new book (2006), and William received it for a gift and then read it last year, often laughing out loud as he did so.
When I picked it up and offered to read it to all three of them, Will was all eager acceptance, and the other two were equally enthusiastic. I had read the boys Peter Pan a few years ago, the unabridged version, and we found it not quite so accessible as the many and various retellings. Still, who can resist a new Pan tale? Who doesn’t like Peter Pan, the One-and-Only-Child?
I am enjoying this book Immensely.
It is beautifully written, imaginatively, intelligently. It is full of delicious and surprising word choices, and the characters are real and believable and true to the way children are, and true, too, to Barrie’s original creation.
The plot is unfolding quickly but deliberately. I am beginning to guess at developments that might be beginning, and I think Will is trying to throw me off the scent. But meanwhile, the Lost Children are in a Brand New Predicament, one different and even more alarming than the one they were in when we stopped reading yesterday, and also different from the one we read the day before.
I love reading to my children. I always have. But I Do So Love reading aloud a book that is also well-written, one that you are pretty sure gave the author Great Pleasure to write. Peter Pan in Scarlet is one of those books. I can tell.
Here’s just a little moment I read tonight, and I was impressed with the imagery and the stunning truth that are packed into two small sentences. Such Good Writing.
“There was no point in them quarreling anymore. The unkind things said could not be rubbed out, but they folded up very small and could be slid away into pockets.”
