I have mentioned The Penderwicks, I believe? The series by Jeanne Birdsall is fantastic, and I finished reading the sequel, The Penderwicks on Gardam Street, for about the twelfth time. I adore that book, even more than the first one, probably because the readers get a glimpse into the Penderwicks' home life. Jane and Skye, I think, get a better part in this book, and Batty becomes more of a person, to me. And Rosalind is not lovestruck. That's always a bonus.
But the thing about reading any of the Penderwick books is that in the slight euphoria I get after reading one, I start to believe that the books could happen. I know they can't. My cousin, J, even made up a genre for books that are simply too perfect to happen, but are written like they could. (The Casson family books, by Hilary McKay, also fall under this genre.)
But even the little things that go on in their lives, that could only happen not to me, oh, I am so jealous of! I want to recite a poem by Shakespeare that confuses everyone so they don't know it's about love! I want to spy on my red-headed neighbors through the forsynthia hedge! (Too bad we don't have red-headed neighbors or a forsynthia hedge.) I would love to live near a Quigley Woods-like place!
I guess I'll just have to make do. It's like I'm being openly taunted when I read these books, like: Ha ha! Nah nah nah nah boo boo! We can do all of this and you can't! But I suppose the whole magic of these books is because it's not happening to me. And B, J, and K are all perfectly anoying sometimes, but I suppose we're sort of Penderwick-ish when we're all in the same place. I have no idea what I would do with any more sibling-like relatives. Not to mention how crazy everyone else would go.
Quote for Thursday, August 13, 2009:
But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
-Hamlet, from Hamlet, scene ii, by William Shakespeare
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