reminiscing
i have to admit, i don't remember.
baby books i like but don't feel deeply sentimental to (clifford, the big red dog, or curious george)
and the famous books, some make me nostalgic but they are just so well written, that i feel there are too many secrets that have been chipped off. to me, it's been polished and refined, too much.
i admit, i love the books written for children, the ones on the shelves of elementary and middle school libraries, or children libraries, but in a way that isn't children-babble. they are.. like a secret garden. a puzzle. something precious. the hearth by the fireplace, something i can immerse myself in day in and day out. i don't think i can like adult or famous books as much, because mostly they have this idea to be interesting, they wanna be good and remembered. i can only admire those books.
i could tell you the plot of many of those books i liked, but not the name.
now, my head thinks it's a good thing i don't remember these nameless books, thinking if i re-read them i'd think, it's not perfect, because they were by "amateurs". and that if they weren't, i wouldn't get the same emotion as i did before so i shouldn't ruin myself.
when i read between the lines, those imperfections don't matter. the imperfections aren't imperfections, but differences. when did i learn not to accept that. *& what they were named.. are they out of print.
oh, but a famous book i think that i really liked was "How To Kill A Mockingbird".