The Sheila Variations

The Books: "The Birds' Christmas Carol" (Kate Douglas Wiggin)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is The Birds' Christmas Carol by Kate Douglas Wiggin

I can't remember where I got my copy of this book but I have had it for what feels like my whole life. This book was published in 1886 and I think the copy I have was actually issued in the 1880s. It's a hard cover, and it has those shiny pages I've mentioned before - old-fashioned paper, which has a sheen to it - and where you can see the imprint of the typeface. Also - it has wonderful illustrations - dark scratchy drawings - very Victorian-era. That's the only way I can describe it. Beautiful illustrations. My Alice in Wonderland book is an old book as well - a Victorian-era printing of it. I love it. The Birds' Christmas Carol is one of the most sentimental treacly proselytizing children's books I've ever read - YET - it has its charms, and she's a good writer. You can certainly see how Lewis Carroll kind of fucked up other writer's plans in this era. He actually described a REAL little girl. Alice is REAL. She has faults, she gets angry, she has a sense of SELF ... In general, kids' books were Sunday School tracts, teaching morals, and lessons, and showing you how to be "good", and blah blah blah Yawn.

So The Birds' Christmas Carol is definitely in that moralizing vein. And add to it that the whole thing is a Christian metaphor - you have the potential for a pretty boring pompous book. Yeah, yeah, I got it, Christ died for my sins, I'll be a good little girl ... Uhm, can I go play now?

But Wiggin, although the sentimentality here is overwhelming, has some lovely passages. She really does. Nobody ever really comes to life - they are all caricatures, two-dimensional - but I do like some of her writing. Briefly: the plot.

On a Christmas Day - a child is born. A little girl. The proud and happy mama and papa don't know what to name her. Since it is Christmas, they hear the choir singing in the church beside the hospital and decide to name her Carol. Their last name is Bird. So her name will be Carol Bird. You can probably already see where we are going here.

For the first 5 years of her life, Carol Bird has a perfect childhood. Her hair is golden and curly, her eyes sparkle with blueness, her cheeks flush - her little laugh makes the world seem like a better place. She is adored.

Then tragedy strikes. Carol begins to walk with a little limp. Her parents notice it, and cling to one another in terror. The limp gets worse until finally Carol is completely crippled and must lie in her bed all the time. I'm assuming polio, but I have no idea.

Poor little Carol. The Christmas child meant to spread joy and happiness ... confined to her room!

Then on her 11th birthday - which is, of course, Christmas, she decides to throw a party. This is her only wish for presents - that her parents help her with this party. She wants nothing for herself. (Of course she doesn't. And why? Because she is a metaphor for the Christmas spirit, not a real little girl!) Anyway - next door there is a poor family named the Ruggles - with 8 kids or something like that. They are poor in a TOTALLY offensive and sentimentalized way. They are adorable, they fight, they have stockings that sag, and yet they all have good hearts. Their mother is stern, loving ... It's not their FAULT that they are poor!! So anyway, Carol wants to have all the Ruggles kids over for Christmas dinner. A little charity function, basically.

So the party goes off very well - we are supposed to chuckle heartily at the sight of the goggle-eyed poor kids, being confronted with the PLENTY of the Christmas table at the Birds house. We are supposed to find their poverty CUTE. But they all have a great great time - it is a night for the books- a night everyone will remember - a night when the Christmas spirit is alive and well and stalking the earth! The Ruggles fill up their poverty-struck souls with Christmas plenty - enough to get them through many a cold night - and Carol, tired yet happy, waves them goodbye from her bedroom window.

And that night ... as the nighttime Christmas mass in the church next door (there is always a church next door, apparently) goes on and the choir sings a Christmas carol - Carol lies her blonde curly head down on her pillow, closes her eyes, happy because of her good deed, and then - she promptly dies.

The End.

I mean, what??

But still. With all of this treacly Christian nonsense, I loved this book when I was a kid, and was captivated by it. Not so much by Carol - because she is obviously not a real little girl and who can care about a two-dimensional cutout? But Wiggin describes her room, where she spends all her time, and how it is decorated (of course in a Christmas theme - because it is Christmas all year round for Carol!) so vividly. I loved it. I also loved Wiggin's description of the Christmas feast - because ... it's from a different time. Another era. The food is different. It sounds old-fashioned. And I always loved books from other eras. Also - there are actually some very funny moments - all involving the Ruggles family, in their adorable poverty.

Anyway, here's an excerpt - where Carol comes up with her plan to entertain the Ruggles.

I know I'm making fun of this book - but it's one in my collection that I could never throw out. Especially my copy of it - which is actually from the era when the book was printed.

Oh - and written on the first page of the book - in a swoopy cursive, now discolored from age are the words:

Oliver
from Marguerite
Xmas 1912

I love that. A relic from days gone by. The book in my hands right now was a Christmas present to Oliver, probably long dead now, in 1912.

Excerpt from The Birds' Christmas Carol by Kate Douglas Wiggin

Uncle Jack did really come on the twentieth. He was not detained by business, nor did he get left behind nor snowed up, as frequently happens in stories, and in real life too, I am afraid. The snow-storm came also; and the turkey nearly died a natural and premature death from overeating. Donald came, too; Donald, with a line of down on his upper lip, and Greek and Latin on his tongue, and stores of knowledge in his handsome head, and stories - bless me, you couldn't turn over a chip without reminding Donald of something that happened "at College". One or the other was always at Carol's bedside, for they fancied her paler than she used to be, and they could not bear her out of sight. It was Uncle Jack, though, who sat beside her in the winter twilgihts. The room was quiet, and almost dark, save for the snow-light outside, and the flickering flames of the fire, that danced over the "Sleeping Beauty's" face and touched the Fair One's golden locks with ruddier glory. Carol's hand (all too thin and white these latter days) lay close clasped in Uncle Jack's, and they talked together quietly of many, many things.

"I want to tell you all about my plans for Christmas this year, Uncle Jack," said Carol, on the first evening of his visit, "because it will be the loveliest one I ever had. The boys laugh at me for caring so much about it; but it isn't altogether because it is Christmas, nor because it is my birthday; but long, long ago, when I first began to be ill, I used to think, the first thing when I waked on Christmas morning, 'Today is Christ's birthday - and mine!' I did not put the words close together, you know, because that made it seem too bold; but I first said, 'Christ's birthday,' out loud, and then, in a minute, softly to myself - 'and mine!' 'Christ's birthday -- and mine!' And so I do not quite feel about Christmas as other girls do. Mamma says she supposes that ever so many other children have been born on that day. I often wonder where they are, Uncle Jack, and whether it is a dear thought to them, too, or whether I am so much in bed, and so often alone, that it means more to me. Oh, I do hope that none of them are poor, or cold, or hungry; and I wish - I wish they were all as happy as I, because they are really my little brothers and sisters. Now, Uncle Jack dear, I am going to try and make somebody happy every single Christmas that I live, and this year it is to be the 'Ruggleses in the rear'."

"That large and interesting brood of children in the little house at the end of the back garden?"

"Yes; isn't it nice to see so many together? -- and, Uncle Jack, why do the big families always live in the small houses, and the small families in the big houses? We ought to call them the Ruggles childrne, of course; but Donald began talking of them as the 'Ruggleses in the rear,' and Papa and Mamma took it up, and now we cannot seem to help it. The house was built for Mr. Carter's coachman, but Mr. Carter lives in Europe, and the gentleman who rents his place for him doesn't care what happens to it, and so this poor family came to live there. When they first moved in, I used to sit in my window and watch them play in their back yard; they are so strong, and jolly, and good-natured; -- and then, one day, I had a terrible headache, and Donald asked them if they would please not scream quite so loud, and they explained that they were having a game of circus, but that they would change and play 'Deaf and Dumb Asylum' all the afternoon."

"Ha ha ha!" laughed Uncle Jack, "what an obliging family, to be sure!"

"Yes, we all thought it very funny, and I smiled at them from the window when I was well enough to be up again. Now, Sarah Maud comes to her door when the children come home from school, and if Mamma nods her head, 'Yes' that means 'Carol is very well,' and then you ought to hear the little Ruggleses yell, - and I believe they try to see how much noise they can make; but if Mamma shakes her head, 'No,' they always play at quiet games. Then, one day, 'Cary', my pet canary, flew out of her cage, and Peter Ruggles caught her and brought her back, and I had him up here in my room to thank him."

"Is Peter the oldest?"

"No; Sarah Maud is the oldest - she helps do the washing; and Peter is the next. He is a dressmaker's boy."

"And which is the pretty little red-haired girl?"

"That's Kitty."

"And the fat youngster?"

"Baby Larry."

"And that -- most freckled one?"

"Now, don't laugh - that's Peoria."

"Carol, you are joking."

"No, really, Uncle dear. She was born in Peoria; that's all."

"And is the next boy Oshkosh?"

"No," laughed Carol, "the others are Susan, and Clement, and Eily, and Cornelius; they all look exactly alike, except that some of them have more freckles than the others."

"How did you learn all of their names?"

"Why, I have what I call a 'window-school.' It is too cold now; but in warm weather I am wheeled out on my balcony, and the Ruggleses climb up and walk along our garden fence, and sit down on the roof of our carriage-house. That brings them quite near, and I tell them stories. On Thanksgiving Day they came up for a few minutes - it was quite warm at eleven o'clock - and we told each other what we had to be thankful for; but they gave such queer answers that Papa had to run away for fear of laughing; and I couldn't understand them very well. Susan was thankful for 'trunks', of all things in the world; Cornelius, for 'horse-cars', Kitty, for 'pork steak'; while Clem, who is very quiet, brightened up when I came to him, and said he was thankful for 'his lame puppy'. Wasn't that pretty?"

"It might teach some of us a lesson, mightn't it, little girl?"

"That's what Mamma said. Now I'm going to give this whole Christmas to the Ruggleses; and, Uncle Jack, I earned part of the money myself."

"You, my bird; how?"

"Well, you see, it could not be my own, own Christmas if Papa gave me all the money, and I thought to really keep Christ's birthday I ought to do something of my very own; and so I talked with Mamma. Of course she thought of something lovely; she always does: Mamma's head is just brimming over with lovely thoughts - all I have to do is ask, and out pops the very one I want. This thought was to let her write down, just as I told her, a description of how a child lived in her own room for three years, and what she did to amuse herself; and we sent it to a magazine and got twenty-five dollars for it. Just think!"

"Well, well," cried Uncle Jack, "my little girl a real author! And what are you going to do with this wonderful 'own' money of yours?"

"I shall give the nine Ruggleses a grand Christmas dinner here in this very room - that will be Papa's contribution - and afterwards a beautiful Christmas tree, fairly blooming with presents - that will be my part; for I have anotherw ay of adding to my twenty-five dollars, so that I can buy anything I choose. I should like it very much if you would sit at the head of the table, Uncle Jack, for nobody could ever be frightened of you, you dearest, dearest, dearest thing that ever was! Mamma is going to help us, but Papa and the boys are going to eat together downstairs for fear of making the little Ruggleses shy; and after we've had a merry time with the tree we can open my window and listen together to the music at the evening church-service, if it comes before the children go. I have written a letter to the organist, and asked him if I might have the two songs I like best. Will you see if it is all right?"

Birds' Nest, December 21, 188-
Dear Mr. Wilkie - I am the little girl who lives next door to the church, and, as I seldom go out, the music on practice days and Sundays is one of my greatest pleasures.
I want to know if you can have "Carol, brothers, carol," on Christmas night, and if the boy who sings "My ain countree" so beautifully may please sing that too. I think it is the loveliest thing in the world, but it always makes me cry; doesn't it you?
If it isn't too much trouble, I hope they can sing them both quite early, as after ten o'clock, I may be asleep.
Yours respectfully,
Carol Bird
P.S. -- The reason I like "Carol, brothers, carol" is because the choir-boys sang it eleven years ago, the morning I was born, and put it into Mamma's head to call me Carol. She didn't remember then that my other name would be Bird, because she was half asleep, and could only think of one thing at a time. Donald says if I had been born on the Fourth of July they would have named me "Independence" or if on the twenty-second of February, "Georgina", or even "Cherry", like Cherry in "Martin Chuzzlewit"; but I like my own name and birthday best.
Yours truly,
Carol Bird

Uncle Jack thought the letter quite right, and did not even smile at her telling the organizt so many family items.

The Books: "The Sword in the Stone" (T.H. White)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is The Sword in the Stone by T. H. White

I can't remember a time when I hadn't read this book. I know I eventually HAD to read it for school - maybe in 8th grade? Would that be right? But I read it much much earlier - mainly because my cousin Susan - who not only did I adore, but I WANTED TO BE HER - read and loved it (and The Once and Future King) so I, of course, had to read them. Susan actually had great tastes in books (she was a year older than me) - and through her I discovered all the Enid Blyton books, for which I am FOREVER grateful. By the way - I thought I HAD some of those old Enid Blyton books, but obviously I don't, since I'm already on "W" in the alphabet. Hmmm. I loved those Adventure books of hers. Again, with the themes I adore: children on their own (preferably British), having to survive by their wits. No parental figures around. Anyhoo. Susan was responsible for me reading a lot of cool books - and the TH White books are part of that. I just LOST myself in these books. The Sword in the Stone was my favorite of the two. I just loved it - the training scenes, the transformation scenes, becoming animals ... I loved Merlyn, and I loved the relationships described. There is a kind of Dickensian flavor to the whole thing - children at the whims of financial realities. Sir Ector is looking for a tutor for his "real" son, his proper son, his REAL heir - Kay. Kay's younger brother is an adopted child named Wart (well, he's called "The Wart") - who, well. His name kind of says it all, in terms of how he is perceived. Sir Ector is a kind and loving man - who does love Wart - but it is no secret that Kay is the one he favors, and wants to give the best to. But it is Wart's journey that makes up the story of this book. Sir Ector hires the magical Merlyn to be Kay's tutor, and Wart's as well, by default. The magic starts. The psychedia starts. They travel back and forth in time. They meet Robin Hood. I love the scene with the little mustard pot that comes alive. Merlyn gives Kay and Wart (but mainly Kay - remember!!) challenges. They become fish. They become badgers.

And did I mention the awesome-ness of the writing? It's rich writing, man - detailed, funny, sharp-eyed - the characters are well-drawn, and you care about them. You care about Wart. I love Wart. He's one of my favorite fictional characters.

Meanwhile, through their journeys - there is word that there is a sword stuck in an anvil in London - and the word goes: ""Whoso Pulleth Out the Sword of the Stone and Anvil, is Rightwise King Born of All England."

There is, at this point, no heir to the throne (if memory serves). So it's a big deal. Where is this sword in the stone? Why is it so hard to pull the sword out? Just pull it out, what's the big deal?

Eventually - Wart and Kay are in London, for a jousting tournament, I believe. Is Merlyn with them? I can't remember - there's a very sad scene when Merlyn lets the boys know that their time with him is almost through. Anyhoo - they're in London, and they head to the jousting tournament. Kay realizes he left his sword back at the castle. Wart, who is basically his manservant in life, is sent back to get it. But the door to Kay's room is locked, and Wart decides to go out into the streets of London and find Kay another sword. Now - this all occurs at the end of the book - and will make up the excerpt I post below - but one of the things I LOVE about the ending of this book, why it gives me goosebumps every time I read it is because it starts out so casual. You don't even get what's coming. It's all very casual, "Oh, where's my sword? Could you go get my sword?" Door's locked. Let's go get another sword. Whatever. It's not all filled with portent and telegraphing of the end. That's why the end packs such a huge punch. For me, at least. Wart doesn't know that what he is doing is accepting his destiny. He will be King of England. He will become Arthur. This is his destiny, and it has been there all along. But Wart is unaware of it. He totally buys into the whole "Kay is the favored son" routine. He hovers in Kay's shadow. He has no dreams of greatness. He just wants to learn the same stuff Kay learns. But there's something deeper going on here. Merlyn knew. But nobody else does. And TH White doesn't tip his hat too early. I LOVE the ending of this book.

So anyway - Wart, wandering around London looking for a replacement sword, casually comes upon a big iron anvil - with a sword sticking up out of it. He doesn't think about the legend, or the saying. He just goes and tries to pull the sword out.

Here's the excerpt. It just kills me. Why does it kill me? Because Wart doesn't know that what he just did was a big deal. Not just a big deal - but the biggest deal ever. And watch how it all unfolds ... how he tells people where he got the sword ... how Kay, the golden boy, tries to ignore the implications, because HE'S supposed to be the king, he is the favorite one, after all ... how could silly dirty little WART have pulled out the mythical sword that nobody else could remove?? And just watch how the realization dawns - on Wart - on everyone else - on what this all means.

It's just a GREAT story about ... a person who might not be expected to heed the call of greatness, who might not be ready for his destiny ... but oh well - here his destiny comes anyway. Anybody can relate to it.

And the ending (or, almost the ending) which I post below ...

Gulp. I'm tellin' ya. It gets me in the throat every time.

Excerpt from The Sword in the Stone by T. H. White

"How does one get hold of a sword?" he continued. "Where can I steal one? Could I waylay some knight, even if I am mounted on an ambling pad, and take his weapons by force? There must be some swordsmith or armorer in a great town like this, whose shop would still be open."

He turned his mount and cantered off along the street.

There was a quiet churchyard at the end of it, with a kind of square in front of the church door. In the middle of the square there was a heavy stone with an anvil on it, and a fine new sword was struck through the anvil.

"Well," said the Wart, "I suppose it's some sort of war memorial, but it will have to do. I am quite sure nobody would grudge Kay a war memorial, if they knew his desperate straits."

He tied his reins round a post of the lych-gate, strode up the gravel path, and took hold of the sword.

"Come, sword," he said. "I must cry your mercy and take you for a better cause."

"This is extraordinary," said the Wart. "I feel queer when I have hold of this sword, and I notice everything much more clearly. Look at the beautiful gargoyles of this church, and of the monastery which it belongs to. See how splendidly all the famous banners in the aisle are waving. How nobly that yew holds up the red flakes of its timbers to worship God. How clean the snow is. I can smell smothing like fetherfew and sweet briar - and is that music that I hear?"

It was music, whether or pan-pipes or of recorders, and the light in the churchyard was so clear, without being dazzling, that you could have picked a pin out twenty yards away.

"There is something in this place," said the Wart. "There are people here. Oh, people, what do you want?"

Nobody answered him, but the music was loud and the light beautiful.

"People," cried the Wart. "I must take this sword. It is not for me, but for Kay. I will bring it back."

There was still no answer, and Wart turned back to the sword. He saw the golden letters on it, which he did not read, and the jewels on its pommel, flashing in the lovely light.

"Come, sword," said the Wart.

He took hold of the handles with both hands, and strained against the stone. There was a melodious consort on the recorders, but nothing moved.

The Wart let go of the handles, when they were beginning to bite into the palms of his hands, and stepped back from the anvil, seeing stars.

"It is well fixed," said the Wart.

He took hold of it again and pulled with all his might. The music played more and more excitedly, and the lights all about the churchyard glowed like amethysts; but the sword still stuck.

"Oh, Merlyn," cried the Wart, "help me to get this sword."

There was a kind of rushing noise, and a long chord played along with it. All along the churchyard there were hundreds of old friends. They rose over the church wall all together, like the Punch and Judy ghosts of remembered days, and there were otters and nightingales and vulgar crows and hares and serpents and falcons and fishes and goats and dogs and dainty unicorns and newts and solitary wasps and goatmoth caterpillars and corkindrills and volcanoes and mighty trees and patient stones. They loomed round the church wall, the lovers and helpers of the Wart, and they all spoke solemnly in turn. Some of them had come from the banners in the church, where they were painted in heraldry, some from the waters and the sky and the fields about, but all, down to the smallest shrew mouse, had come to help on account of love. Wart felt his power grow.

"Remember my biceps," said the Oak, "which can stretch out horizontally against Gravity, when all the other trees go up or down."

"Put your back into it," said a Luce (or pike) off one of the heraldic banners, "as you did once when I was going to snap you up. Remember that all power springs from the nape of the neck."

"What about those forearms," said a Badger gravely, "they are held together by a chest? Come along, my dear embryo, and find your tool."

A Merlin sitting at the top of the yew tree cried out, "Now then, Captain Wart, what is the first law of the foot? I thought I once heard something about never letting go?"

"Don't work like a stalling woodpecker," urged a Tawny Owl affectionately. "Keep up a steady effort, my duck, and you will have it yet."

"Cohere," said a Stone in the church wall.

A Snake, slipping easily along the coping which bounded the holy earth, said, "Now then, Wart, if you were once able to walk with three hundred ribs at once, surely you can coordinate a few little muscles here and there? Make everything work together, as you have been learning to do ever sice God let the amphibia crawl out of the sea. Fold your powers together, with the spirit of your mind, and it will come out like butter. Come along, homo sapiens, for all we humble friends of yours are waiting here to cheer."

The Wart walked up the great sword for the third time. He put out his right hand softly and drew it out as gently as from a scabbard.

There was a lot of cheering, a noise like a hurdy-gurdy which went on and on. In the middle of the noise, after a very long time, he saw Kay and gave him the sword. The people at the tournament were making a frightful row.

"But this isn't my sword," said Sir Kay.

"It was the only one I could get," said the Wart. "The inn was locked."

"It is a nice-looking sword. Where did you get it?"

"I found it stuck in a stone, outside a church."

Sir Kay had been watching the tilting nervously, waiting for his turn. He had not paid much attention to his squire.

"That's a funny place to find a sword," he said.

"Yes, it was stuck through an anvil."

"What?" asked Sir Kay, suddenly rounding upon him. "Did you just say this sword was stuck in a stone?"

"It was," said the Wart. "It was a sort of war memorial."

Sir Kay stared at him for several seconds in amazement, opened his mouth, shut it again, licked his lips, then turned his back and plunged through the crowd. He was looking for Sir Ector, and the Wart followed after him.

"Father," cried Sir Kay, "come here a moment."

"Yes, my boy," said Sir Ector. "Splendid falls these professional chaps do manage. Why, what's the matter, Kay? You look as white as a sheet."

"Do you remember that sword which the King of England would pull out?"

"Yes."

"Well, here it is. I have it. It is in my hand. I pulled it out."

Sir Ector did not say anything silly. He looked at Kay and he looked at the Wart. Then he stared at Kay again, long and lovingly, and said, "We will go back to the church."

"Now then, Kay," he said, when they were at the church door. He looked at his first-born again, kindly, but straight between the eyes. "Here is the stone, and you have the sword. It will make you the King of England. You are my son that I am proud of, and always will be, whatever happens. Will you promise me that you took it out by your own might?"

Kay looked at his father. He also looked at the Wart and at the sword.

Then he handed the sword to the Wart quite quietly.

He said, "I am a liar. Wart pulled it out."

As far as the Wart was concerned, there was a time after this in which Sir Ector kept telling him to put the sword back into the stone - which he did - and in which Sir Ector and Kay then vainly tried to take it out. The Wart took it out for them, and stuck it back again once or twice. After this, there was another time which was more painful.

He saw that his dear guardian Sir Ector was looking quite old and powerless, and that he was kneeling down with difficulty on a gouty old knee.

"Sir," said poor old Sir Ector, without looking up, although he was speaking to his own boy.

"Please don't do this, father," said the Wart, kneeling down also. "Let me help you up, Sir Ector, because you are making me unhappy."

"Nay, nay, my lord," said Sir Ector, with some very feeble old tears. "I was never your father nor of your blood, but I wote well ye are of an higher blood than I wend ye were."

"Plenty of people told me you are not my father," said the Wart, "but it doesn't matter a bit."

"Sir," said Sir Ector humbly, "will ye be my good and gracious lord when ye are King?"

"Don't!" said the Wart.

"Sir," said Sir Ector, "I will ask no more of you but that you will make my son, your foster-brother, Sir Kay, seneschal of all your lands."

Kay was kneeling down too, and it was more than the Wart could bear.

"Oh, do stop," he cried. "Of course he can be seneschal, if I have got to be this King, and oh, father, don't kneel down like that, because it breaks my heart. Please get up, Sir Ector, and don't make everything so horrible. Oh, dear, oh, dear, I wish I had never seen that filthy sword at all."

And the Wart also burst into tears.

The Books: "Ballet Shoes" (Noel Streatfield)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is Ballet Shoes by Noel Streatfeild.

There are a couple of important books I read in my childhood and this is one of them. Important, I mean, in terms of me, and my development- and also my private little world of wanting to be an actress. Because even though I was in plays and everything as a little kid, and even though I knew I was happier on stage than just about anywhere else - my ambition was something I kept private. It seemed embarrassing and I didn't know what to do with it. Also, my family didn't really like show-offs, and I didn't want to be a show-off. But what is acting other than showing off? A lot of my desire to be an actress came from (and still comes from) wanting to be seen. This isn't easy to admit, because people hate people like that. And yet, whaddya know, they still shell out their 10 bucks to go see movie stars "show off" ... and maybe they don't respect the impulse, and maybe they wouldn't like the movie star if they met him in person ... but they still love to go be entertained. And all of those people, mega-stars even, just want to be SEEN. As you develop your craft, other things come into the picture. For me it did, anyway. You fall in love with the artform itself. You become aware of a bigger need. Something happens between actor and audience during the course of a play that is truly profound - on both sides - and it is addictive. What is it? It is a shared experience. It is an experience of Community with a capital C unlike anything else I have ever experienced. I was unaware of all of this when I was a little kid. I just knew that being in school plays was the most fun I had ever had ... and more than that ... I knew that I NEEDED to do it. I liked other things, too. I loved to write. I loved playing baseball. But acting - with all its anxiety, all its frightening implications - was what I NEEDED to do. And at the very bottom of that need, was a ferocious desire to be SEEN. I believe that once you accept that desire (which is, at its base, an anti-social desire), and stop shaming yourself for it, and stop thinking that you need to be like other people, and stop putting "fitting in" as the #1 virtue - you are well on your way to actually BEING an actor. So in terms of the importance of this book, Ballet Shoes (which is a wonderfully written story, by the way) - it said a couple of different things to me. It said: You are not alone. Other little girls out there have the same burning desire. It also said: There is a way to take this craft seriously. You can actually WORK at it until you can do it as a JOB. Now my aunt Regina was (and is) an actress - and part of my childhood was going to see her in shows up and down the Eastern seaboard. A marvelous singer, wonderful actress - she was impossibly glamourous to me - one of my most important influences. My first trip to New York was when I was 11 years old - and I went on the train by myself (Mum, Dad - how on earth did you dare??) - and stayed with Regina for a weekend. She took me to see Annie (and omigod, Sarah Jessica Parker was playing Annie!!) - and I stayed with her in her little apartment, and she took me around to museums, and it was one of the coolest trips EVER! Now I know that Regina was only 22 at that time - which is just amazing to me - she seemed SO adult!! I'm imagining myself at 22. Wow. What?? So unlike some other people - who have no examples in their immediate family of people who do this weird job and actually have lives, etc. - I had an example right in front of me, which was very important. This private acting dream of mine was something I could actually do when I was a grown-up.

Ballet Shoes, which I read when I was 9 or 10, was a hugely formative book for me - for all of these reasons. It is the story of Pauline, Petrova and Posy Fossil (yes, those are their names) - three adopted sisters - who live in the bleak rain-sodden world of 1930s London - and who, in order to pay for their room and board in their foster home - start to train for the stage. Streatfeild wrote a whole series of these books - about kids who are good at something, and who go to train for it - Circus Shoes, Tennis Shoes - and more. I read them all - but Ballet Shoes was my favorite. I LIVED with those girls. I went to the Academy of Dancing with them. I angsted over their auditions. I marveled at Posy's gift for ballet. I wanted to BE in those classes. I wanted to have my chance too - to "put my name in the history books" (this is a vow the 3 sisters make to one another). I read it over and over and over ... and I still have my copy of it - and funnily enough, I picked it up this morning, and I knew the first paragraph by heart:

The Fossil sisters lived in the Cromwell Road. At that ed of it which is farthest away from the Brompton Road, and yet sufficiently near it so one could be taken to look at the dolls' housese in the Victoria and Albert every wet day. If the weather were not too wet, one was expected to "save the penny and walk".

Interestingly enough, Petrova (the one who didn't want to be an actress) was my favorite of all of the sisters. I related to her the most. She was not obedient, she grumbled a lot, and she had outside interests. This seems interesting to me - it seems logical that Pauline, the little prodigy actress would have been my favorite, but no. Petrova was my girl. I could analyze this thus: Even with acting growing in my heart as something I wanted to do ... I think I knew that I could never not have other interests. I don't know that I KNEW this, actually ... most of this was unconscious. Petrova was an actress, and actually kind of a good one - instinctive - but she never took it too seriously, and always had her eyes looking up in the sky, looking for "aeroplanes", her main passion. People do not fit into nice little square boxes. Pauline "should" have been my favorite - but she was not. Petrova was.

Another reason why this book was so haunting to me was because the three girls lived in a world I didn't know - London in the 1930s. What is the Cromwell Road? No idea - it seemed like I SHOULD know - but because of this book I had a vivid picture of it in my mind. As well as "the dolls' houses in the Victoria and Albert". What is the Victoria and Albert? No idea - but I had an entire building erected in my mind. I had a love affair with stories of kids in London anyway, starting from when I read Oliver Twist at age 10 - I loved the Narnia books - I loved The Little Princess ... London was just alive for me, because of books like that. It seemed kind of grim. There was always rain. People wore galoshes, and lit fires when they came inside. There were tea trays, and grey sodden lawns. Noel Streatfeild is a wonderful writer - she doesn't just write very convincingly of the training young actors got in London those days (although all of that is very well done) - she describes that entire pre-war world of London vividly. You LIVE there with those sisters. Also, I just so wanted to call my own dresses "frocks" and not have anyone look at me weird. "Frock" is SUCH a better word than 'dress", an opinion I maintain to this day.

Pauline turns out to be a gifted actress, and starts getting leading roles immediately. Petrova is the odd one out - a skinny brown-haired tomboy - she has no interest in this stuff - she wants to be an aviatrix. She wants to fly "aeroplanes". Again - with that spelling of the word .... a whole other world is evoked. A British world. A world SORT of like mine - I knew what she was talking about when she talked about "aeroplanes" - but that's not how WE spell it. I loved that slight difference. It was romantic. The youngest sister, Posy, is 8 years old. And although she has no training yet - it is apparent to the people at the school from day one - that she could be a ballerina the entire world would know. Her talent is kind of mystical - and there are a couple of goosebumpy sections when it is recognized (one of them is in the excerpt below). Posy is casual about her genius - beause most geniuses are. They don't know that there is any other way to be than the way that they are.

If I had to look back on my childhood and pick 5 books which helped me to become who I am today - this one is on the list. Maybe it would be #1. Well, it would have to be a tie with Harriet the Spy. Harriet was the writer in me. The Ballet Shoes girls were the actress. This book helped say to me:

No. You are not crazy. This is actually something you can DO and taking it seriously is not only NOT silly ... but it is one of the most worthwhile things you can do with your time. Being a show-off is not a bad thing if you put it to USE. So whatever you do, Sheila, put it to USE. Yes, I was only 10, 11 years old when I read it ... but it had that affect on me. Flipping through the pages right now, I can feel the young young Sheila reading it, poring over every word, taking life lessons from every page.

Weirdly enough: I have mentioned this book before on my blog, just in passing. I got a random email from Mark Steyn of all people - out of the blue - saying, "Anyone who loves Noel Streatfeild is okay in my book. I read them all when I was a kid." Okay - now picture THAT!! Also ... uhm ... Mark Steyn reads my blog? Huh?

Here's an excerpt that kind of captures the magical feel of this book. The Fossil girls have just been accepted as scholarship students into the Academy of Dancing. Their whole lives change.

Listen to the details. See how a whole world is created?

Excerpt from Ballet Shoes by Noel Streatfeild.

The Fossils became some of the busiest children in London. They got up at half-past seven and had breakfast at eight. After breakfast they did exercises with Theo for half an hour. At nine they began lessons. Posy did two hours' reading, writing, and kindergarten work with Sylvia, and Pauline and Petrova did three hours with Doctor Jakes and Doctor Smith. They were very interesting lessons, but terribly hard work; for if Doctor Smith was teaching Pauline, Doctor Jakes taught Petrova, and the other way on, and as both doctors had spent their lives coaching people for terribly stiff examinations - though of course they taught quite easy things to the children - they never got the idea out of their minds that a stiff examination was a thing everybody had to pass some day. There was a little break of ten minutes in the middle of the morning when milk and biscuits were brought in; but after a day or two they were never eaten or drunk. Both doctors ahd lovely ideas about the sort of things to have in the middle of lessons - a meal they called a beaver. They took turns to get it ready. Sometimes it was chocolate with cream on it, and sometimes Doctor Jakes' ginger drink, and once it was ice-cream soda; and the things to eat were never the same: queer biscuits, little one from Japan with delicate flowers painted on them in sugar, cakes from Vienna, and specialties of different kinds from all over England. They had their beavers sitting round the fire in either of the doctors' rooms, and they had discussions which had nothing to do with lessons. At twelve o'clock they went for a walk with Nana or Sylvia. They liked it best when Sylvia took them. She had better ideas about walks; she thought the Park the place to go to, and thought it a good idea to take hoops and things to play with. Nana liked a nice clean walk up as far as the Victoria and Albert and back. On wet days Sylvia thought it a good plan to stay in and make toffee or be read out loud to. Nana thought nicely brought-up children ought to be out of the house between twelve and one, even on a wet day, and she took them to see the dolls' houses in the Victoria and Albert. The children liked the dolls' houses; but there are a lot of wet days in the winter, and they saw them a good deal. Pauline and Petrova had lunch with Sylvia, Posy had hers with Nana. After lunch they all had to take a book on their beds for half an hour. In the afternoons there was another walk, this one always with Nana. It lasted an hour, and as they had usually walked to the Victoria and Albert in the morning, they did not have to go there again, but took turns to choose where they went. Pauline liked walking where there were shops. Petrova liked the Earl's Court Road, because there were three motor showrooms for her to look at. Posy liked to go towards the King's Road, Chelsea, because on the way they passed a shop that sold puppies. They all liked Posy's walk; but they did not choose it themselves because they knew she would. If Nana was not so sure that they must save and penny and walk they would have gone to much more exciting placesl for you can't get far on your legs when there is only an hour, and that includes getting home again. Tea was in the nursery at a quarter to four, and at half past they went by the Piccadilly railway to Russell Square. They all liked going on the underground; but both Gloucester Road, where they got in, and Russell Square, where they got out, were those mean sort of stations that have lifts instead of moving staircases.

"Going to dancing class," Petrova said almost every day, "wouldn't be so bad if only there was even one moving staircase."

As soon as they got to the Academy they went down to the changing-room. There they shared a locker in which their rompers and practice-frocks and shoes were kept. Their rompers were royal blue with C.A. for Children's Academy embroidered on the pockets. They wore their rompers for the first half-hour, and with them white socks and black patent-leather ankle-strapped shoes. In these clothes they did exercises and a little dancing which was known as "character", and twice a week they worked at tap dancing. At the end of half an hour they hung towels round their necks (for they were supposed to get so hot they would need a wipe down) and went back to the changing-room and put on their white tarlatan practice-frocks. These were like overalls with no join down the back; the bodice had hooks and the frills of the skirt wrapped over and clipped. With this they wore white socks and white kid slippers. The work they did in these dresses they found dull, and it made their legs ache. They did not realize that the half-hour spent holding on to a bar and doing what they thoughts stupid exercises was very early training for ballet. Ballet to them meant wearing blocked shoes like the little pair that had come with Posy or such as the more advanced classes wore at school. Sometimes Madame Fidolia came in to watch their class, and directly she arrived they all let go of the practice-bar and curtsied to the floor saying "Madame".

They got home at half-past six, and Posy went straight to bed. Sylvia reada to the other two for twenty minutes, and then Petrova had to go up, and at seven, Pauline. The lights were out by half-past and there was o more talking.

On Saturday mornings they worked from ten to one at the Academy. As well as special exercise classes and the ordinary dancing classes, there was singing, and one hour's acting class. For these they wore the Academy overalls. They were of black sateen made from a Russian design, with high collars, and double-breasted, buttoning with large black buttons down the left side; round the waist they had wide black leather belts. With these they wore their white sandals.

Petrova, who hated clothes, found the everlasting changing an awful bore. Saturdays were the worst.

"Oh, I do hate Saturdays," she said to Nana. "I get up in my jersey and skirt, and as soon as I get to the Academy I change everything, even put a vest on instead of my combinations, and wear those rompres; and then my practice-dress and the overall; and then back into my combinations and my skirt and jersey. I wish I was a savage and wore nothing."

"That's no way to talk," Nana told her sternly. "Many a poor little child would be glad of the nice clothes you wear; and as for changing out of your combies, I'm glad you do; you wear holes in them fast enough without all the dancing in them."

From the very beginning Madame took an interest in Posy. Every class that she came to watch she made her do some step alone. Posy had her shoes taken off one day and her instep looked at; Madame was so delighted at the shape and flexibility of her feet that she called the rest of the class to look at them. The rest of the class admired them while Madame was there, but secretly none of them could see anything about them different from their own. Pauline and Petrova thought it very bad for Posy to be made so conspicuous, and to teach her not to get cocky they called her "Posy-Pretty-Toes" all the way home. Posy hated it and at last burst into tears. Nana was very cross.

"That's right, you two, tease poor little Posy; she can't help Madame saying she has nice feet. It's jealous, that's what you are. Any more of your nonsense and you'll go to bed half an hour early."

"Why should we be jealous?" asked Petrova. "Who cares what feet look like? They are just useful things."

Pauline giggled.

"Have you pretty feet, Nana?" She looked down at Nana's square-teoed black shoes which she always wore.

"I have what God gave me," Nana said reverently. "and they're all I need, never having thoughts to dance in a ballet."

The thought of Nana, who was very fat, dancing in a ballet made them all laugh so much that they forgot to call Posy "Pretty-Toes" again, and they were still laughing when they got home.

It was at the acting classes that Pauline shone. The acting in their first term was entirely in mime. They acted whole fairy stories without saying a word. Whether she was a princess, or a peasant, or an old man, Pauline managed to make them real without any dressing up, but just in the way she moved.

Just before Christmas the school broke up for a month. All the senior girls were working in pantomimes, and for some time all those who were not old enough for licenses had felt very important. The children's classes were moved from one room to another to make room for rehearsals, and the notice-board was covered with rehearsal calls. "All concered in the Rose Ballet, in room three at 4.30". "The children appearing in Red Riding Hood, 5.30, room seven." "The principals for the Jewel Ballet, 4 o'clock, room one." And, as well, calls for the children stars. "Poppy: 10.30 with Madame Fidolia." "Winifred: 12 o'clock with Madame Fidolia."

Pauline, Petrova, and Posy would gaze in great awe at these names.

"Winifred," one of them would say - "that's the girl who wears a fur coat. Poppy is going to be Alice in Wonderland. She's the one with the long hair."

They would peep through the glass on the doors of the rooms where the rehearsals were taking place, and stare at the children who were already twelve and old enough to earn money.

"Not this Christmas, but the one after I shall be one of those children," Pauline said enviously.

"Do you want to be?" Petrova asked in surprise. "I'm very glad I'm not twelve, except because of Garnie wanting money to look after us."

Pauline watched the figures through the glass, the rows of white practice-dresses, and the rows of pink canvas ballet shoes.

"I don't want to be them, exactly," she explained, "but I want to be old enough not to dance, but to act. I'd like that."

Posy could not see through the glass window without standing on her toes. Suddenly watching the ballet rehearsal she got up on to her points. She was only wearing her sandals, but she did not seem worried by the position. Pauline nudged Petrova.

"Look at Posy."

Petrova looked. Then both of them tried to stand up on their toes, but they could not - it hurt. Posy was not looking at them; but she lolled against the door balanced on her points as easily as if they were her flat feet. Petrova said at last:

"Could you walk on your toes like that, Posy?"

Posy looked down at her feet as if surprised at the way they were behaving. Then she walked down teh passage. She was perfectly easy on her points, as though it was ordinary to walk on them. Pauline and Petrova did not show her how impressed they were, as they thought it would be bad for her. But on the way home, Pauline said:

"You know, Petrova, I do think Posy really has got rather nice little feet."

Petrova nodded.

"I shouldn't wonder if she danced terribly well."

The Books: "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" (J.K. Rowling)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling.

A massive swooping book (which, broken record, I could not put down) - with a tragedy at the end - something I didn't see coming.

But I chose a girlie excerpt, because I'm a girl, and I enjoy the high drama of teen romances. I especially love unrequited love.

Excerpt from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling.

Harry could not see Hermione at the Gryffindor celebration party, which was in full swing when he arrived. Renewed cheers and clapping greeted his appearance, and he was soon surrounded by a mob of people congratulating him. What with trying to shake off the Creevey brothers, who wanted a blow-by-blow match analysis, and the large group of girls that encircled him, laughing at his least amusing comments and batting their eyelids, it was some time before he could try and find Ron. At last, he extricated himself from Romilda Vane, who was hinting heavily that she would like to go to Slughorn's Christmas party with him. As he was ducking toward the drinks table, he walked straight into Ginny, Arnold the Pygmy Puff riding on her shoulder and Crookshanks mewing hopefully at her heels.

"Looking for Ron?" she asked, smirking. "He's over there, the filthy hypocrite."

Harry looked into the corner she was indicating. There, in full view of the whole room, stood Ron wrapped so closely around Lavender Brown it was hard to tell whose hands were whose.

"It looks like he's eating her face off, doesn't it?" said Ginny dispassionately. "But I suppose he's got to refine his technique somehow. Good game, Harry."

She patted him on the arm; Harry felt a swooping sensation in his stomach, but then she walked off to help herself to more butterbeer. Crookshanks trotted after her, his yellow eyes fixed upon Arnold.

Harry turned away from Ron, who did not look like he would be surfacing soon, just as the portrait hole was closing. With a sinking feeling, he thought he saw a mane of bushy brown hair whipping out of sight.

He darted forward, sidestepped Romilda Vane again, and pushed open the portrait of the Fat Lady. The corridor outside seemed to be deserted.

"Hermione!"

He found her in the first unlocked classroom he tried. She was sitting on the teacher's desk, alone except for a small ring of twittering yellow birds circling her head, which she had clearly just conjured out of midair. Harry could not help admiring her spellwork at a time like this.

"Oh, hell, Harry," she said in a brittle voice. "I was just practicing."

"Yeah ... they're - er - really good ..." said Harry.

He had no idea what to say to her. He was just wondering whether there was any chance that she had not noticed Ron, that she had merely left the room because the party was a little too rowdy, when she said, in an unnaturally high-pitched voice, "Ron seems to be enjoying the celebration."

"Er ... does he?" said Harry.

"Don't pretend you didn't see him," said Hermione. "He wasn't exactly hiding it, was --"

The door behind them burst open. To Harry's horror, Ron came in, laughing, pulling Lavender by the hand.

"Oh," he said, drawing up short at the sight of Harry and Hermione.

"Oops!" said Lavender, and she backed out of the room, giggling. The door swung shut behind her.

There was a horrible, swelling, billowing silence. Hermione was staring at Ron, who refused to look at her, but said with an odd mixture of bravado and awkwardness, "Hi, Harry! Wondered where you'd got to!"

Hermione slid off the desk. The little flock of golden birds continued to twitter in circles around her head so that she looked like a strange, feathery model of the solar system.

"You shouldn't leave Lavender waiting outside," she said quietly. "She'll wonder where you've gone."

She walked very slowly and erectly toward the door. Harry glanced at Ron, who was looking relieved that nothing worse had happened.

"Oppugno!" came a shriek from the doorway.

Harry spun around to see Hermione pointing her wand at Ron, her expression wild: The little flock of birds was speeding like a hail of fat golden bullets toward Ron, who yelped and covered his face with his hands, but the birds attacked, pecking and clawing at every bit of flesh they could reach.

"Gerremoffme!" he yelled, but with one last look of vindictive fury, Hermione wrenched open the door and disappeared through it. Harry thought he heard a sob before it slammed.

The Books: "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix" (J.K. Rowling)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J.K. Rowling.

Here's the post I wrote directly after finishing the book. I was very taken by the cover of this book - of all the covers (and the artwork is generally amazing) - but the midnight-blues and blacks seemed very evocative to me - and it really goes along with what this whole book is about. The darkest of the series. Harry is alone. Harry is different. We always knew Harry was different - from the beginning - he's got the mark of difference on his forehead. But in the first books, he finds a group of friends, he is accepted (even with that difference), and even embraced. All of that changes in Order of the Phoenix. We see the dark side of being different. Which is: being isolated. Having to go it alone. Only Harry is really equipped to do what must be done. And he doesn't feel ready for it. Who of us feels ready when called? He also resents the fact, almost for the first time, that he is different - that he is "the one". Why is all the responsibility on his shoulders? He's pissed about it. Also, he's dealing with a lot of physical anxiety - his dreams, his itching scar, the taunting voices in his head ... These are all private experiences. His friends can sympathize, but they don't understand. He is alone. This is something any kid can relate to - even if they have not been marked by Voldemort, and go to a school of magic. Harry is a miserable dude in this book - and he makes life miserable for his friends who care about him. Finally, Ron and Hermione kind of just back off from him, because they are sick of him lashing out at them. This book is so true to the upheavals of adolescence. Yes, it takes place in a magical otherworld - but all of that stuff is so right ON, and that's one of the appeals of the books, for me.

I'll post a really creepy excerpt.

I remember reading it for the first time, and thinking: "Okay. This canNOT be a good sign." It's early in the book - and it sets up the whole theme in a really chilling way - a sudden and upsetting separation in perspective from his kindred spirits Ron and Hermione. They do not (and cannot) enter into his experience with him. It's upsetting. Upsetting to be alone.

Excerpt from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J.K. Rowling.

Here stood the hundred or so horseless stagecoaches that always took the students above first year up to the castle. Harry glanced quickly at them, turned away to keep a lookout for Ron and Hermione, then did a double take.

The coaches were no longer horseless. There were creatures standing between the carriage shafts; if he had had to give them a name, he supposed he would have called them horses, although there was something reptilian about them, too. They were completely fleshless, their black coats clinging to their skeletons, of which every bone was visible. Their heads were dragonish, and their pupil-less eyes white and staring. Wings sprouted from each wither -- vast, black leathery wings that looked as though they ought to belong to giant bats. Standing still and quiet in the gloom, the creatures looked eerie and sinister. Harry could not understand why the coaches were being pulled by these horrible horses when they were quite capable of moving along by themselves.

"Where's Pig?" said Ron's voice, right behind Harry.

"That Luna girl was carrying him," said Harry, turning quickly, eager to consult Ron about Hagrid. "Where d'you reckon - "

" - Hagrid is? I dunno," said Ron, sounding worried. "He'd better be okay ..."

A short distance away, Draco Malfoy, followed by a small gang of cronies including Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson, was pushing some timid-looking second years out of the way so that they could get a coach to themselves. Seconds later Hermione emerged panting from the crowd.

"Malfoy was being absolutely foul to a first year back there. I swear I'm going to report him, he's only had his badge three minutes and he's using it to bully people worse than ever ... Where's Crookshanks?"

"Ginny's got him," said Harry. "There she is ..."

Ginny had just emerged from the crowd, clutching a squirming Crookshanks.

"Thanks," said Hermione, relieving Ginny of the cat. "Come on, let's get a carriage together before they all fill up ..."

"I haven't got Pig yet!" Ron said, but Hermione was already heading off toward the nearest unoccupied coach. Harry remained behind with Ron.

"What are those things, d'you reckon?" he asked Ron, nodding at the horrible horses as the other students surged past them.

"What things?"

"Those horse --"

Luna appeared holding Pigwidgeon's cage in her arms; the tiny owl was twittering excitedly as usual.

"Here you are," she said. "He's a sweet little owl, isn't he?"

"Er ... yeah ... He's all right," said Ron gruffly. "Well, come on then, let's get in ... what were you saying, Harry?"

"I was saying, what are those horse things?" Harry said, as he, Ron, and Luna made for the carriage in which Hermione and Ginny were already sitting.

"What horse things?"

"The horse things pulling the carriages!" said Harry impatiently; they were, after all, about three feet from the nearest one; it was watching them with empty white eyes. Ron, however, gave Harry a perplexed look.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about - look!"

Harry grabbed Ron's arm and wheeled him about so that he was face-to-face with the winged horse. Ron stared straight at it for a second, then looked back at Harry.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"At the -- there, between the shafts! Harnessed to the coach! It's right there in front --"

But as Ron continued to look bemused, a strange thought occurred to Harry.

"Can't ... can't you see them?"

"See what?"

"Can't you see who's pulling the carriages?"

Ron looked seriously alarmed now.

"Are you feeling all right, Harry?"

"I ... yeah ..."

Harry felt utterly bewildered. The horse was there in front of him, gleaming solidly in the dim light issuing from the station windows behind them, vapor rising from its nostrils in the chilly night air. Yet unless Ron was faking - and it was a very feeble joke if he was - Ron could not see it at all.

"Shall we get in, then?" said Ron uncertainly, looking at Harry as though worried about him.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Yeah, go on ..."

"It's all right," said a dreamy voice from beside Harry as Ron vanished into the coach's dark interior. "You're not going mad or anything. I can see them too."

"Can you?" said Harry desperately, turning to Luna. He could see the bat-winged horses reflected in her wide, silvery eyes.

"Oh yes," said Luna. "I've been able to see them ever since my first day here. They've always pulled the carriages. Don't worry. You're just as sane as I am."

Smiling faintly, she climbed into the musty interior of the carriage after Ron. Not altogether reassured, Harry followed her.

The Books: "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire" (J.K. Rowling)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling.

I had SUCH a blast reading this one in the series, in particular. Not sure why. I just know that I could not put it down. The 'world cup' chapters? Just so inventive - so awesome - you just go deeper and deeper into this 3-dimensional world that Rowling created. And now - in this book - the stakes are ratcheted up a bit. I mean, think about the ending ... think about Cedric. The stakes in the other books were serious, too - but now? It seems to be getting personal. There's a death mark in the sky, things appear to be getting more desperate ... I also, you know, love the little glimmerings of teenage romance that start to bubble up here and there. But there's just so much to say about this book because, of course, it is 10,000 pages long. I remember one summer on vacation with my family looking across the room, and little 6 or 7 year old Cashel was sitting in a chair - one leg crossed over the over - just like my dad sits, and just like my brother sits (with the ankle of the crossed leg resting on the knee of the other leg - so that the crossed leg makes a little shelf) - and Cashel had this massive hardcover book which was practically wider than his torso - resting on the little shelf of his crossed leg - and he was seriously reading, turning the pages. That was the book that got him to the next level, in terms of reading by himself. The first couple of books we would have to read to him. But Maria and Brendan told him he couldn't see the next Harry Potter movie that came out until he read the book all by himself - so Cashel sat down, crossed his leg, and read the whole damn thing.

I had a hard time deciding what to excerpt - so much good stuff - but I finally went with the arrival of the 2 other schools at Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament. I just love her descriptions here. And I love Madame Maxime's French accent.

Excerpt from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling.

Harry was starting to feel cold. He wished they'd hurry up ... Maybe the foreign students were preparing a dramatic entrance ... He remembered what Mr. Weasley had said back at the campsite before the Quidditch World Cup: "always the same -- we can't resist showing off when we get together."

And then Dumbledore called out from the back row where he stood with the other teachers -

"Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!"

"Where?" said many students eagerly, all looking in different directions.

"There!" yelled a sixth year, pointing over the forest.

Something large, much larger than a broomstick - or, indeed, a hundred broomsticks - was hurtling across the deep blue sky toward the castle, growing larger all the time.

"It's a dragon!" shrieked one of the first years, losing her head completely.

"Don't be stupid ... it's a flying house!" said Dennis Creevey.

Dennis's guess was closer ... As the gigantic black shape skimmed over the treetops of the Forbidden Forest and the lights shining from the castle windows hit it, they saw a gigantic, powder-blue, horse-drawn carriage, the size of a large house, soaring toward them, pulled through the air by a dozen winged horses, all palominos, and each the size of an elephant.

The front three rows of students drew backwards as the carriage hurtled ever lower, coming in to land at a tremendous speed - then, with an almighty crash that made Neville jump backward onto a Slytherin fifth year's foot, the horses' hooves, larger than dinner plates, hit the ground. A second later, the carriage landed too, bouncing upon its vast wheels, while the golden horses tossed their enormous heads and rolled large, fiery red eyes.

Harry just had time to see that the door of the carriage bore a coat of arms (two crossed, golden wands, each emitting three stars) before it opened.

A boy in pale blue robes jumped down from the carriage, bent forward, fumbled for a moment with something on the carriage floor, and unfolded a set of golden steps. He sprang back respectfully. Then Harry saw a shining, high-heeled black shoe emerging from inside of the carriage - a shoe the size of a child's sled - followed, almost immediately, by the largest woman he had ever seen in his life. The size of the carriage, and of the horses, was immediately explained. A few people gasped.

Harry had only ever seen one person as large as this woman in his life, and that was Hagrid: he doubted whether there was an inch difference in their heights. Yet somehow - maybe simply because he was used to Hagrid - this woman (now at the foot of the steps, and looking around at the waiting, wide-eyed crowd) seemed even more unnaturally large. As she stepped into the light flooding from the entrance hall, she was revealed to have a handsome, olive-skinned face, large, black liquid-looking eyes and a rather beaky nose. Her hair was drawn back in a shining knob at the base of her neck. She was dressed from head to foot in black satin, and many magnificent opals gleamed at her throat and on her thick fingers.

Dumbledore started to clap; the students, following his lead, broke into applause too, many of them standing on tiptoe, the better to look at this woman.

Her face relaxed into a gracious smile and she walked forward toward Dumbledore, extending a glittering hand. Dumbledore, though tall himself, had barely to bend to kiss it.

"My dear Madame Maxime," he said. "Welcome to Hogwarts."

"Dumbly-dorr," said Madame Maxime in a deep voice. "I 'ope I find you well?"

"In excellent form, I thank you," said Dumbledore.

"My pupils," said Madame Maxime, waving one of her enormous hands carelessly behind her.

Harry, whose attention had been focused completely upon Madame Maxime, now noticed that about a dozen boys and girls, all, by the look of them, in their late teens, had emerged from the carriage and were now standing behind Madame Maxime. They were shivering, which was unsurprising, given that their robes seemed to be made of fine silk, and none of them were wearing cloaks. A few had wrapped scarves and shawls around their heads. From what Harry could see of them (they were standing in Madame Maxime's enormous shadow), they were staring up at Hogwarts with apprehensive looks on their faces.

" 'As Karkaroff arrived yet?" Madame Maxime asked.

"He should be here any moment," said Dumbledore. "Would you like to wait here and greet him or would you prefer to step inside and warm up a trifle?"

"Warm up, I think," said Madame Maxime. "But ze 'orses --"

"Our Care of Magical Creatures teacher will be delighted to take care of them," said Dumbledore, "the moment he has returned from dealing with a slight situation that has arisen with some of his other - er - charges."

"Skrewts," Ron muttered to Harry, grinning.

"My steeds require - er - forceful 'andling," said Madame Maxime, looking as though she doubed whether any Care of Magical Creatures teacher at Hogwarts could be up to the job. "Zey are very strong ..."

"I assure you that Hagrid will be well up to the job," said Dumbledore, smiling.

"Very well," said Madame Maxime, bowing slightly. "Will you please inform zis 'Agrid zat ze 'orses drink only single-malt whiskey?"

"It will be attended to," said Dumbledore, also bowing.

"Come," said Madame Maxime imperiously to her students, and the Hogwarts crowd parted to allow her and her students to pass up thes tone steps.

"How big d'you reckon Durmstrang's horses are going to be?" Seamus Finnegan said, leaning around Lavendar and Parvati to address Harry and Ron.

"Well, if they're any bigger than this lot, even Hagrid won't be able to handle them," said Harry. "That's if he hasn't been attacked by his skrewts. Wonder what's up with them?"

"Maybe they've escaped," said Ron hopefully.

"Oh, don't say that," said Hermione with a shudder. "Imagine that lot loose on the grounds ..."

They stood, shivering slightly now, waiting for the Durmstrang party to arrive. Most people were gazing hopefully up at the sky. For a few minutes, the silence was broken only by Madame Maxime's huge horses snorting and stamping. But then --

"Can you hear something?" said Ron suddenly.

Harry listened, a loud and oddly eerie noise was drifting toward them from out of the darkness: a muffled rumbling and sucking sound, as though an immense vacuum cleaner were moving along a riverbed ...

"The lake!" yelled Lee Jordan, pointing down at it. "Look at the lake!"

From their position at the top of the lawns overlooking the grounds, they had a clear view of the smooth black surface of the water - except that the surface was suddenly not smooth at all. Some disturbance was taking place deep in the center; great bubbles were forming on the surface, waves were now washing over the muddy banks - and then, out in the very middle of the lake, a whirlpool appeared, as if a giant plug had just been pulled out of the lake's floor ...

What seemed to be a long, black pole began to rise slowly out of the heart of the whirlpool ... and then Harry saw the rigging ...

"It's a mast!" he said to Ron and Hermione.

Slowly, magnificently, the ship rose out of the water, gleaming in the moonlight. It had a strangely skeletal look about it, as though it were a resurrected wreck, and the dim, misty lights shimmering at its portholes looked like ghostly eyes. Finally, with a great sloshing noise, the ship emerged entirely, bobbing on the turbulent water, and began to glide toward the bank. A few moments later, they heard the splash of an anchor being thrown down in the shallows, and the thud of a plank being lowered onto the bank.

People were disembarking; they could see their silhouettes passing the lights in the ship's portholes. All of them, Harry noticed, seemed to be built along the lines of Crabbe and Goyle ... but then, as they drew nearer, walking up the lawns into the light streaming from the entrance hall, he saw that their bulk was really due to the fact that they were wearing cloaks of some kind of shaggy, matted fur. But the man who was leading them up to the castle was wearing furs of a different sort: sleek and silver, like his hair.

"Dumbledore!" he called heartily as he walked up the slope. "How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?"

"Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff," Dumbledore replied.

Karkaroff had a fruity, unctuous voice; when he stepped into the light pouring from the front door of the castle they saw that he was tall and thin like Dumbledore, but his white hair was short, and his goatee (finishing in a small curl) did not entirely hide his rather weak chin. When he reached Dumbledore, he shook hands with both of his own.

"Dear old Hogwarts," he said, looking up at the castle and smiling; his teeth were rather yellow, and Harry noticed that his smile did not extend to his eyes, which remained cold and shrewd. "How good it is to be here, how good ... Viktor, coming along, into the warmth ... you don't mind, Dumbledore? Viktor has a slight head cold ..."

Karkaroff beckoned forward one of his students. As the boy passed, Harry caught a glimpse of a prominent curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He didn't need the punch on the arm Ron gave him, or the hiss in his ear, to recognize that profile.

"Harry -- it's Krum!"

The Books: "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban" (J.K. Rowling)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling.

I didn't know what excerpt to choose! The dementor appearing on the train? The patronus training? Professor Trelawney - one of the goofiest characters ever created (brilliantly portrayed in the movie as well by Emma Thompson) - I just think her whole thing is so FUNNY. But ... well ... I decided to go with this one.

The "fat lady" has disappeared from her painting - which has now been slashed to bits. Dumbledore orders everyone in the school to go into the Great Hall and stay there until the entire castle has been searched. Crisis! Thank goodness we have the priggish git Percy in charge! Every school must have a fascist-dictator-in-training!

This is the book where Harry seems to start dealing, emotionally, with what happened to his parents. The dementors affect on him is devastating - he hears his parents last moments of life - screaming to one another, trying to save their baby son ... Harry seems to be both weakened and strengthened by these glimpses into the horrors of the past.

Excerpt from Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling.

Professor Dumbledore sent all the Gryffindors back to the Great Hall, where they were joined ten minutes later by the students from Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin, who all looked extremely confused.

"The teachers and I need to conduct a thorough search of the castle," Professor Dumbledore told them as Professors McGonagall and Flitwick closed all doors into the hall. "I'm afraid that, for your own safety, you will have to spend the night here. I want the prefects to stand guard over the entrances to the hall and I am leaving the Head Boy and Girl in charge. Any disturbance should be reported to me immediately," he added to Percy, who was looking immensely proud and important.

Professor Dumbledore paused, about to leave the hall, and said, "Oh, yes, you'll be needing ..."

One casual wave of his wand and the long tables flew to the edges of the hall and stood themselves against the walls; another wave, and the floor was covered with hundreds of squashy purple sleeping bags.

"Sleep well," said Professor Dumbledore, closing the door behind him.

The hall immediately began to buzz excitedly; the Gryffindors were telling the rest of the school what had just happened.

"Everyone into their sleeping bags!" shouted Percy. "Come on, now, no more talking! Lights out in ten minutes!"

"C'mon," Ron said to Harry and Hermione; they seized three sleeping bags and dragged them into a corner.

"Do you think Black's still in the castle?" Hermione whispered anxiously.

"Dumbledore obviously thinks he might be," said Ron.

"It's very lucky he picked tonight, you know," said Hermione as they climbed fully dressed into their sleeping bags and propped themselves on their elbows to talk. "The one night we weren't in the tower ..."

"I reckon he's lost track of time, being on the run," said Ron. "Didn't realize it was Halloween. Otherwise he'd have come bursting in here."

Hermione shuddered.

All around them, people were asking one another the same question. "How did he get in?"

"Maybe he knows how to Apparate," said a Ravenclaw a few feet away. "Just appear out of thin air, you know."

"Disguised himself, probably," said a Hufflepuff fifth year.

"He could've flown in," suggested Dean Thomas.

"Hoestly, am I the only person who's ever bothered to read Hogwarts: A History?" said Hermione crossly to Harry and Ron.

"Probably," said Ron. "Why?"

"Because the castle's protected by more than walls, you know," said Hermione. "There are all sorts of enchantments on it, to stop people entering by stealth. You can't just Apparate in here. And I'd like to see the disguise that could fool those dementors. They're guarding every single entrance to the grounds. They'd have seen him fly in too. And Filch knows all the secret passages, they'll have them covered ..."

"The lights are going out now!" Percy shouted. "I want everyone in their sleeping bags and no more talking!"

The candles all went out at once. The only light now came from the silvery ghosts, who were drifting about talking seriously to the prefects, and the enchanted ceiling, which, like the sky outside, was scattered with stars. What with that, and the whispering that still filled the hall, Harry felt as though he were sleeping outdoors in a light wind.

Once every hour, a teacher would reappear in the hall to check that everything was quiet. Around three in the morning, when many students had finally fallen asleep, Professor Dumbledore came in. Harry watched him looking around for Percy, who had been prowling between the sleeping bags, telling people off for talking. Percy was only a short way away from Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who quickly pretended to be asleep as Dumbledore's footsteps drew nearer.

"Any sign of him, Professor?" asked Percy in a whisper.

"No. All well here?"

"Everything under control, sir."

"Good. There's no point moving them all now. I've found a temporary guardian for the Gryffindor portrait hole. You'll be able to move them back in tomorrow."

"And the Fat Lady, sir?"

"Hiding in a map of Argyllshire on the second floor. Apparently she refused to let Black in without the password, so he attacked. She's still very distressed, but once she's calmed down, I'll have Mr. Filch restore her."

Harry heard the door of the hall creak open again, and more footsteps.

"Headmaster!" It was Snape. Harry kept quite still, listening hard. "The whole of the third floor has been searched. He's not there. And Filch has done the dungeons; nothing there either."

"What about the Astronomy tower? Professor Trelawney's room? The Owlery?"

"All searched ..."

"Very well, Severus. I didn't really expect Black to linger."

"Have you any theory as to how he got in, Professor?" asked Snape.

Harry raised his head very slightly off his arms to free his other ear.

"Many, Severus, each of them is as unlikely as the next."

Harry opened his eyes a fraction and squinted up to where they stood; Dumbledore's back was to him, but he could see Percy's face, rapt with attention, and Snape's profile, which looked angry.

"You remember the conversation we had, Headmaster, just before - ah - the start of term?" said Snape, who was barely opening his lips, as though trying to block Percy out of the conversation.

"I do, Severus," said Dumbledore, and there was something like warning in his voice.

"It seems - almost impossible - that Black could have entered the school without inside help. I did express my concerns when you appointed --"

"I do not believe a single person inside this castle would have helped Black enter it," said Dumbledore, and his tone made it so clear that the subject was closed that Snape didn't reply. "I must go down to the dementors," said Dumbledore. "I said I would inform them when the search was complete."

"Didn't they want to help, sir?" said Percy.

"Oh, yes," said Dumbledore coldly. "But I'm afraid no demetor will cross the threshold of this castle while I am headmaster."

Percy looked slightly abashed. Dumbledore left the hall, walking quickly and quietly. Snape stood for a moment, watching the headmaster with an expression of deep resentment on his face; then he too left.

Harry glanced sideways at Ron and Hermione. Both of them had their eyes open too, reflecting the starry ceiling.

"What was all that about?" Ron mouthed.

The Books: "Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Secrets" (J.K. Rowling)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Secrets by J.K. Rowling.

The books are so episodic that I found it hard to pick out an excerpt. Like - we have the flying car which leads to the Whomping Willow. But - once that's over, it's over - and onto the next thing. (I find parts of the books tedious for that reason - It ends up reading like: "And then THIS happened and then THIS happened and then THIS happened ..." and eventually I'm like: "So?" I get bored with the episodic nature of the books sometimes. The main PLOT-LINE of each book - the ARC, if you will - is there in the titles. The final battle, or stand-off - is always in the title - but I feel like some of the episodes included are extraneous and could have been chopped earlier along in the process.) All of this is to say I flipped through the book, reminiscing about my favorite parts - I love the ridiculousness of Lockhart - He is such a funny character. I love how the Weasleys come and save Harry in the beginning of the book. This is our first introduction to The Burrow, and what a cozy chaotic happy place it is. You just love being there, and you're happy for Harry to have such good friends.

Anyway, I decided - as an excerpt - to go with the Deathday Party (or at least part of it). I just found some of the images really arresting, and cool - and I also love Rowlings cleverness and wit here. The books are funny - that's one of the reasons I am so hooked on them. Like - the group of "gloomy nuns" at the party ... It's just such a funny random image. I love that detail.

Also, I am SURE that Rowling was subtly referencing Miss Havisham's decaying wedding feast in this section. Can't be a coincidence.

Also, please. I love Ron so much I frankly do not know what to do with myself.

Excerpt from Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Secrets by J.K. Rowling.

The passageway leading to Nearly Headless Nick's party had been lined with candles, too, though the effect was far from cheerful. These were long, thin, jet-black tapers, all bursting bright-blue, casting a dim, ghostly light even over their own living faces. The temperature dropped with every step they took. As Harry shivered and drew his robes tightly around him, he heard what sounded like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard.

"Is that supposed to be music?" Ron whispered. They turned a corner and saw Nearly Headless Nick standing at a doorway hung with black velvet drapes.

"My dear friends," he said mournfululy, 'Welcome, welcome ... so pleased you could come ..."

He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside.

It was an incredible sight. The dungeon was full of hundreds of pearly-white, translucent people, mostly drifting around a crowded dance floor, waltzing to the dreadful, quavering sound of thirty musical saws, played by an orchestra on a raised, black-draped platform. A chandelier overhead blazed midnight-blue with a thousand more black candles. Their breath rose in a mist before them; it was like stepping into a freezer.

"Shall we have a look around?" Harry suggested, wanting to warm up his feet.

"Careful not to walk through anyone," said Ron nervously, and they set off around the edge of the dance floor. They passed a group of gloomy nuns, a ragged man wearing chains, and the Fat Friar, a cheerful Hufflepuff ghost, who was talking to a knight with an arrow sticking out of his forehead. Harry wasn't surprised to see that the Bloody Baron, a gaunt, staring Slytherin ghost covered in silver bloodstains, was being given a wide berth by the other ghosts.

"Oh, no," said Hermione, stopping abruptly. "Turn back, turn back, I don't want to talk to Moaning Myrtle --"

"Who?" said Harry as they backtracked quickly.

"She haunts one of the toilets in the girls' bathroom on the first floor," said Hermione.

"She haunts a toilet?"

"Yes. It's been out of order all year because she keeps having tantrums and flooding the place. I never went in there anyway if I could avoid it; it's awful trying to have a pee with her wailing at you --"

"Look, food!" said Ron.

On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, also covered in black velvet. They approached it eagerly but next moment had stopped in their tracks, horrified. The smell was quite disgusting. Large, rotten fish were laid on handsome silver platters; cakes, burned charcoal-black, were heaped on salvers; there was a great maggoty haggis, a slab of cheese covered in furry green mold and in pride of place, an enormous gray cake in the shape of a tombstone, with tar-like icing forming the words.

SIR NICHOLAS DE MIMSY-PORPINGTON
DIED 31ST OCTOBER 1492

Harry watched, amazed, as a porly ghost approached the table, crouched low, and walked through it, his mouth held wide so that it passed through one of the stinking salmon.

"Can you taste it if you walk through it?" Harry asked him.

"Almost," said the ghost sadly and he drifted away.

"I expect they've let it rot to give it a stronger flavor," said Hermione knowledgably, pinching her nose and leaning closer to look at the putrid haggis.

"Can we move? I feel sick," said Ron.

The Books: "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone" (J.K. Rowling)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by J.K. Rowling. Here we go!!!

Well, I can't resist. I need to post an excerpt from the first chapter. I'll just explain why. This is a series - this is a phenomenon ... So it is interesting to look at the BEGINNING. I remember reading that first chapter for the first time - and at the last paragraph - I literally got a little goosebumpy.

This was a true BEGINNING. It doesn't feel like a fluke that this series took off, and that Harry Potter became as huge as he did - especially not when you read that first chapter, and even more specially: when you read the last paragraph of the first chapter.

I am probably not explaining myself well. But I think JK Rowling knows exactly what she's doing - and while it may have been one of those lucky strikes of fortune that helped propel this book into mythic status - I still imagine Rowling sitting in the coffee shop, scribbling this first chapter in a cheap looseleaf notebook .... or on stray napkins ... whatever piece of paper was handy. There was no guarantee. There are no guarantees. The success of Harry Potter was not a foregone conclusion, even though the whole thing seems inevitable now. I think that if the first chapter were not so, well, perfect ... the series might not have taken off as it did. How can you not keep on reading?

But also (in my opinion - and not to overthink this) - there's a little bit more to it - than just setting up a cool story. And whatever it is in that last paragraph.

The only word I can think of to use is an appropriate one - Magic.

Suddenly, in that last paragraph ... there is magic. Basically, the microscope becomes a telescope, in one fell swoop. You can see it in the writing. Minute detail ... and then pulling back, way way back ... Even now, re-reading it this morning, I got a little, ehm, lump in my throat, and felt the goosebumps. It WORKS.

Here's the end of that first chapter:

Excerpt from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by J.K. Rowling.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild - long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hhid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir -- house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where --" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have the scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well - give him here, Hagrid - we'd better get this over with."

Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.

"Could I -- could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!"

"S - s - sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it - Lily and James dead - an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles --"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall - Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley ... He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter - the boy who lived!"

The Books: "The Westing Game" (Ellen Raskin)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin.

This is such a great book that I'm not going to say anything about it. I'm just going to post an excerpt and DARE you to not want to read further.

This is the first chapter of the book, called 'Sunset Towers'.

Excerpt from The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin.

The sun sets in the west (just about everyone knows that), but Sunset Towers faced east. Strange!

Sunset Towers faced east and had no towers. This glittery, glassy apartment house stood alone on the Lake Michigan shore five stories high. Five empty stories high.

Then one day (it happened to be the Fourth of July), a most uncommon-looking delivery boy rode around town slipping letters under the doors of the chosen tenants-to-be. The letters were signed Barney Northrup.

The delivery boy was sixty-two years old, and there was no such person as Barney Northrup.

_______________________________________

Dear Lucky One:

Here it is - the apartment you've always dreamed of, at a rent you can afford, in the newest, most luxurious building on Lake Michigan:

SUNSET TOWERS

Picture windows in every room

Uniformed doorman, maid service

Central air conditioning, hi-speed elevator

Exclusive neighborhood, near excellent schools

Etc., etc.

You h ave to see it to believe it. But these unbelievably elegant apartments will be shown by appointment only. So hurry, there are only a few left!!! Call me now at 276-7474 for this once-in-a-lifetime offer.

Your servant,
Barney Northrup

P.S. I am also renting ideal space for:

Doctor's office in lobby

Coffee shop with entrance from parking lot

Hi-class restaurant on entire top floor

______________________________________________

Six letters were delivered, just six. Six appointments were made, and one by one, family by family, talk, talk, talk, Barney Northrup led the tours around and about Sunset Towers.

"Take a look at all that glass. One-way glass," Barney Northrup said. "You can see out, nobody can see in."

Looking up, the Wexlers (the first appointment of the day) were blinded by the blast of morning sun that flashed off the face of the building.

"See those chandeliers? Crystal!" Barney Northrup said, slicking his black moustache and straightening his hand-painted tie in the lobby's mirrored wall. "How about this carpeting? Three inches thick!"

"Gorgeous," Mrs. Wexler replied, clutching her husband's arm as her high heels wobbled in the deep plush pile. She, too, managed an approving glance in the mirror before the elevator door opened.

"You're really in luck," Barney Northrup said. "There's only one apartment left, but you'll love it. It was meant for you." He flung open the door to 3D. "Now, is that breathtaking, or is that breaktaking?"

Mrs. Wexler gasped; it was breathtaking, all right. Two walls of the livig room were floor-to-ceiling glass. Following Barney Northrup's lead, she ooh-ed and aah-ed her joyous way through the entire apartment.

Her trailing husband was less enthusiastic. "What's this, a bedroom or a closet?" Jake Wexler asked, peering into the last room.

"It's a bedroom, of course," his wife replied.

"It looks like a closet."

"Oh Jake, this apartment is perfect for us, just perfect," Grace Wexler argued in a whining coo. The third bedroom was a trifle small, but it would do just fine for Turtle. "And think what it means having your office in the lobby, Jake; no more driving to and from work, no more mowing the lawn or shoveling snow."

"Let me remind you," Barney Northrup said, "the rent here is cheaper than what your old house costs to upkeep."

How would he know that, Jake wondered.

Grace stood before the front window where, beyond the road, beyond the trees, Lake Michigan lay calm and glittering. A lake view! Just wait until those so-called friends of hers with their classy houses see this place. The furniture would have to be reupholstered; no, she'd buy new furniture - beige velvet. And she'd have stationary made - blue with a deckle edge, her name and fancy address in swirling type across the top: Grace Windsor Wexler, Sunset Towers on the Lake Shore.

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Not every tenant-to-be was quite as overjoyed as Grace Windsor Wexler. Arriving in the late afternoon, Sydelle Pulaski looked up and saw only the dim, warped reflections of treetops and drifting clouds in the glass face of Sunset Towers.

"You're really in luck," Barney Northrup said for the sixth and last time. "There's only one apartment left, but you'll love it. It was meant for you." He flung open the door to a one-bedroom apartment in the rear. "Now, is that breathtaking or is that breathtaking?"

"Not especially," Sydelle Pulaski replied as she blinked into the rays of the summer sun setting behind the parking lot. She had waited all these years for a place of her own, and here it was, in an elegant building where rich people lived. But she wanted a lake view.

"The front apartments are taken," Barney Northrup said. "Besides, the rent's too steep for a secretary's salary. Believe me, you get the same luxuries here at a third of the price."

At least the view from the side window was pelasant. "Are you sure nobody can see in?" Sydelle Pulaski asked.

"Absolutely," Barney Northrup said, following he suspicious stare to the mansion on the north cliff. "That's just the old Westing house up there; it hasn't been lived in for fifteen years."

"Well, I'll have to think it over."

"I have twenty people begging for this apartment," Barney Northrup said, lying through his buckteeth. "Take it or leave it."

"I'll take it."

Whoever, whatever else he was, Barney Northrup was a good salesman. In one day he had rented all of Sunset Towers to the people whose names were already printed on the mailboxes in an alcove off the lobby

OFFICE Dr. Wexler
LOBBY Theodorakis Coffee Shop
2C F. Baumbach
2D Theodorakis
3C S. Pulaski
3D Wexler
4C Hoo
4D J.J. Ford
5 Shin Hoo's Restaurant

Who were these people, these specially selected tenants? They were mothers and fathers and children. A dressmaker, a secretary, an inventor, a doctor, a judge. And, oh yes, one was a bookie, one was a burglar, one was a bomber, and one was a mistake. Barney Northrup had rented one of the apartments to the wrong person.

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The Books: "The Mysterious Disappearance of Leon (I Mean Noel)" (Ellen Raskin)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is The Mysterious Disappearance of Leon (I Mean Noel) by Ellen Raskin.

Holy moly, how all the O'Malley kids loved this book. Actually, we were huge Ellen Raskin buffs - but this was the book that started it all. Ellen Raskin is amazing - her books are intricate whodunits - the reader becomes a participant in solving the mystery (actively - in Leon (I Mean Noel) - where she has encouraging footnotes shouting at us: "REMEMBER THIS PART. WRITE IT DOWN. OR PUT A BOOKMARK HERE. THIS IS A CLUE!" Etc. Her books are soooo fun. She's kind of a genius. Not only does she create these masterful mysteries - almost interactive - but her characters are great as well. My favorite of hers is The Westing Game - I can't recommend that one highly enough - but The Mysterious Disappearance of Leon (I mean Noel) was my introduction to Ellen Raskin.

I haven't read this book in years but here is what I remember:

It opens with 2 families - the Fishs and the Carillons - they're neighbors - they both have farms, and one family grows only tomatoes and the other family grows only potatoes. They are having a rough year, financially - so they get together on Thanksgiving, pool their resources for a dinner. The Carillons have a little boy named Leon and the Fishs have a little girl named Caroline only everyone calls her Little Dumpling. (Everyone in this book has multiple names. Which you can guess from the title) Anyway - one family brings a bunch of tomatoes, the other brings potatoes - and they wonder: Hmm, what can we create out of this for a Thanksigivng dinner? They end up making soup - which turns out to be so spectacularly good - that they end up selling the recipe I believe and making gazillions of dollars. (Sorry - the details are not clear). Oh - but before that happens - the two sets of parents decide to cement their legacy, keep it all in the family, so to speak, by marrying their two children. Who are only, what, 7 years old? The two little kids - Little Dumpling and Leon, stand in the living room, with runny noses, their mittens dangling from their wrists, and they are promised to one another.

So. Long story longer. Leon and Little Dumpling of course have to go ahead and grow up before they can actually live as a married couple - but now - instead of everyone calling Little Dumpling Caroline - or Caroline Little Dumpling - everyone (including her parents) call her Mrs. Carillon. Even when she's only 9 years old. This is such a wacky book.

Leon and Little Dumpling are separated for most of their childhood. Throughout that time, Leon sends Little Dumpling cryptic messages (one a year) - which sound very benign - "I'm growing a red mustache" - but end up being clues later on.

At the age of 19 they are reunited ... and they are sailing in a boat - and a huge wave comes and knocks the boat over - and as Leon disappears under the water he glub-blubs one last message - which is totally mysterious - and ends up sending Little Dumpling on a worldwide search for him - because - he didn't drown ... the hospital confirms that for her, they released him ....? What was he trying to tell her? What did those last glub-glubs mean?

This is a book that is like a word game. You have to cut and paste different pieces of words to see if when put together again they make sense. It's like a game of hangman or Jeopardy - where you have to visualize what the complete word or phrase is when you only have a few letters.

This is all I remember of the book. My siblings will probably remember more. I can't even remember if it's a happy ending. But it's totally engrossing, and loads of fun. I read it when I was about 10.

Here's an excerpt, from early on in the book - Notice her little warning guideposts in the footnotes. So much fun to read when you're 10 - and as an adult!

Excerpt from The Mysterious Disappearance of Leon (I Mean Noel) by Ellen Raskin.

At times she thought those seven long years of pokes and jabs and smells of simmering soups would never end, then suddenly, one day, her dream came true.

Leon's fourteenth card with the fourteenth message had arrived.

____________________________

Nineteen-year-old Mrs. Carillon locked the last suitcase and studied herself once more in the full-length mirror. She was singing one of Leon's messages at the top of her lungs, because she was happy, and because it hurt Miss Anna Oglethorpe's sensitive ears.

"Grown a mustache - it's red, red, red ..." *

Every December 9th Leon had written her a message inside identical wedding anniversary cards decorated with violets. Mrs. Carillon knew every word of the fourteen messages by heart; still, she wondered what her husband looked like as a grown man. Would she recognize him?

"No problem," she thought as she pinned a stray black curl in place. "Leon, I mean Noel, is sure to recognize me." She appeared taller than her five feet in her purple high-heeled shoes; but she had to admit that she still looked something like a dumpling. Besides, she was wearing a purple-flowered dress.

A car horn honked. Mr. Banks had arrived to drive her to the station.

Mrs. Carillon grabbed her bags stuffed with purple-flowered resort clothes and ran down the stairs.

"Good-by soup! Good-by house!" she shouted.

"And good-by, forever, Miss Anna Oglethorpe!"

LEON'S FOURTEEN MESSAGES**

1. Hi! Leon
2. I am fine. How are you? Leon
3. I hate school. I'm the smallest one here. Leon
4. Got to wear glasses because I can't see the blackboard. Leon
5. My best friend is called Pinky. Leon
6. I'm writing the story of my life. You are in it. Leon
7. I'm going to wear a black tie to mourn my folks from now on and always. Leon
8. Who wrote that awful soup song? I can't stand it! I hate the song as much as I hate the soup. In fact, I hate all soup - except won ton. Leon (I hate my name, too!)
9. Pinky taught me how to ride a horse - it's great fun, except the stable only has slow nags. I think I'll get a horse of my own. Noel (That's my new name. It's much more genteel, don't you think?)
10. Help! Mr. Banks won't let me buy a horse. Try and make him change his mind. Noel
11. Found a great job. Tell tight-wad Banks to keep his old riding boots - I don't need handouts. Noel
12. Grown a moustache. It's red! Noel
13. Shaved off my moustache. Noel
14. Meet me at the Seaside Hotel, Palm Beach, this Friday. Noel

Leon? Noel!

No one in the lobby of the Seaside Hotel recognized her, or her purple-flowered dress. She announced herself to the desk clerk and was handed a key to room 1164. No one was in the room.

Mrs. Carillon wondered whether today was Friday; then she saw the note in the familiar handwriting propped up on the desk.

Put on a bathing suit and meet me at the dock. Noel

No one seemed to recogniz her, or her purple-flowered swimsuit. She jostled through the throng of vacationers looking for - no, not a black tie, no one wore neckties with bathing trunks - glasses, perhaps, and a red ... Suddenly, she saw him.

"Leon, I mean Noel!" Mrs. Carillon shrieked and threw her arms around a skinny man with brown hair, red moustache, and sunglasses. The little man struggled desperately to free himself from her tight embrace.

She didn't realize her mistake until a pretty blonde woman hissed, "Seymour, what are you doing?" and yanked him out of her arms. Mrs. Carillon watched the couple hasten away. She was too confused and embarrassed to feel someone tapping her on the shoulder.

"Mrs. Carillon?" And another tap.

Mrs. Carillon spun around. A tall, clean-shaven man with brown hair and sunglasses smiled down at her.

"Leon?" she asked in a hoarse whisper.

"Noel," he replied.

THE LAST MESSAGE***

It was an awkward moment, not at all the way she had dreamed it would be. Fourteen years had passed; they had grown up into strangers.

"We still have time for a sail," Noel said at last. "Let's go!"

Mrs. Carillon studied her handsom husband as he guided the sailboat out of the bay. "I never would have recognized you," she said.

Noel turned to her and smiled.

She smiled.

They sat there and smiled.

They didn't move; the boat didn't move. It hung suspended on the crest of a monstrous wave. It teetered. It crashed into the thrashing sea, smashed.

Mrs. Carillon somersaulted into the wild water, rose to the surface, climbed onto the broken hull, and looked about her.

"Leon, Leon!" she shouted at the bobbing head a few yards away. The head went under; the head came up; the head went under; the head came up.

"Leon!" she cried.

And he answered:

"Noel glub C blub all .... I glub new ..." ****

__________________________

Mrs. Carillon didn't know what hit her, or what happened next. Two days later she woke up in a hospital with an aching head.

"How's Leon -- Noel?" were her first words.

"Leon Noel?" repeated the nurse. "You must mean the man who was rescued with you. Just a cut on the elbow. We patched him up right away and let him go."

Mrs. Carillon returned to the hotel, but Noel was no longer registered there. The only message was a checkroom stub for her luggage. She finally found a bellhop who remembered delivering a plane ticket to a man of her description.

"A ticket to New York, I think."

* Message 12. Strange, for Leon had brown hair, but not impossible.

** Some very important clues here. You don't have to memorize all the messages as Mrs. Carillon did; a bookmark will do.

*** Hereupon referred to as the glub-blubs.

**** That's it! Copy it down, or memorize it; most of all, try to solve it.

The Books: "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe" (C.S. Lewis)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis.

I mean, please.

This book was read out loud to our 4th grade class. Unforgettable. I still remember my first encounter with this book. The magic, the heartache, and ... just the writing - the DETAIL! It was always the DETAILS that got me, sucked me in. The description of Mr. Tumnus' cave ... I mean, honestly. Who would not want to live in that cozy spot?? The terrifying first meeting between the White Witch and Edmund ... who wasn't fascinated by Turkish Delight? Who didn't relate to Edmund in that scene? But the way that Witch appears, and the two line description of her made me go all goosebumpy when I was a kid and I still go all goosbumpy when I read it: "Her face was white - not merely pale, but white like snow or paper or icing sugar, except for her very red mouth. It was a beautiful face in other respects, but proud and cold and stern." See? Goosebumps. Details. The smell and scratch of the fur coats in the wardrobe, and the sudden wintry chill. That damn lamppost. Etc. I could go on and on and on and on ...

I'll post what may be a rather innocuous excerpt except for the brief hint of things ominous to come at the very end - but it's one of my favorite bits of writing in the entire book. It was when I was a kid, too. I remember my mouth almost watering when I heard this part read to me for the first time. The food smells, the coziness after the winter, the roaring fire, the melty butter ...

CS Lewis made that world real.

From The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis.

Above the dam there was what ought to have been a deep pool but was now of course a level floor of dark green ice. And below the dam, much lower down, was more ice, but instead of being smooth this was all frozen into the foamy and wavy shapes in which the water had been rushing along at the very moment when the frost came. And where the water had been trickling over and spurting through the dam there was now a glittering wall of icicles, as if the side of the dam had been covered all over with flowers and wreaths and festoons of the purest sugar. And out in the middle, and partly on the top of the dam, was a funny little house shaped rather like an enormous bee-hive and from a hole in the roof smoke was going up, so that when you saw it (especially if you were hungry) you at once thought of cooking and became hungrier than you were before.

That was what the others chiefly noticed, but Edmund noticed something else. A little lower down the river there was another small river which came down another small valley to join it. And looking up that valley, Edmund could see two small hills, and he was almost sure they were the two hills which the White Witch had pointed out to him when he parted from her at the lamp-post that other day. And then between them, he thought, must be her palace, only a mile off or less. And he thought about Turkish Delight and about being a King ("And I wonder how Peter will like that?" he asked himself) and horrible ideas came into his head.

"Here we are," said Mr. Beaver, "and it looks as if Mrs. Beaver is expecting us. I'll lead the way. But be careful and don't slip."

The top of the dam was wide enough to walk on, though not (for humans) a very nice place to walk because it was covered with ice, and though the frozen pool was level with it on one side, there was a nasty drop to the lower river on the other. Along this route Mr. Beaver led them in single file right out to the middle where they could look a long way up the river and a long way down it. And when they had reached the middle they were at the door of the house.

"Here we are, Mrs. Beaver," said Mr. Bever, "I've found them. Here are the Sons and Daughters of Adam and Eve" -- and they all went in/

The first thing Lucy noticed as she went in was a burring sound, and the first thing she saw was a kind-looking old she-beaver sitting in the corner with a thread in her mouth working busily at her sewing machine and it was from it that the sound came. She stopped her work and got up as soon as the children came in.

"So you've come at last!" she said, holding out both her wrinkled old paws. "At last! To think that ever I should live to see this day! The potatoes are on boiling and the kettle's singing and I daresay, Mr. Beaver, you'll get us some fish."

"That I will," said Mr. Beaver and he went out of the house (Peter went with him) and across the ice of the deep pool to where he had a little hole in the ice which he kept open every day with his hatchet. They took a pail with them, Mr. Beaver sat down quietly at the edge of the hole (he didn't seem to mind it's being so chilly) looked hard into it, then suddenly shot in his paw, and before you