When asked what my favorite book is, I mentally sifted through several. But my favorite of all books? One single book that enthralled me as a child, travelled with me no matter how many times I moved, and defined me as both a reader and a writer? That was an easy choice, once I weeded through all the books that came after.
I don’t know where my copy of The World’s Best Fairy Tales came from, but judging by the careful cursive and muddy check marks penciled onto the index pages, I couldn’t have been more than seven. It’s likely I’ve had it even longer. Today, I would never write in a book. Blasphemy! But the fact that it was only on the table of contents (checking off which ones I’d read and which ones I wanted to read again) and that it was done in pencil shows even as a child I didn’t want to wreck the beautiful book.
There are hundreds of stories in it. Many are so obscure that most people have never heard of them. And the ones people do recognize are not the versions they’re familiar with. I walked the lonely halls of the Beast’s castle with Beauty, exploring the rooms filled with birds, colored paper, musical instruments, and yarn. I wept when the prince didn’t return the love of the Little Mermaid and she turned to sea foam, and I waited, breathless to see what the tiny glow from the Little Match Girl’s flame would reveal.
