For the sake of my sanity, we urgently need a new favourite book for my son
I took my son to the library for the first time last week. This wasn’t so much for his benefit as my own. Despite his newfound passion for story time, he has no real desire for more books, since he would happily hear one in particular until the end of time. No longer does he seek the narrative heft of Happy Dog Sad Dog, nor the earth-shattering revelations of What’s This on the Farm? for he has become hopelessly infatuated with a new favourite, a desultory effort about a runaway bear.
I’d always, quite bravely, said the Nazis were wrong for banning books. Even their reasoning – that indecent literature could warp your mind, or inspire evil in a well-balanced reader – seemed absurd. I now know it makes a kind of sense, because if I read this book one more time I will break into a zoo and head-butt every last bear I find. I hate this book with a passion that frightens me, and I hate the runaway bear himself most of all. If he was my bear and he ran away from home, I’d throw a street party. Its asinine plot and feckless protagonist have no such effect on my son, however, who will drag it to be read 20 times a day.
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