The original dust jacket for this book (published in 1938) was mostly yellow, with illustrations by Edward Shenton. The book won the Pulitzer Prize in 1939 and was subsequently reissued in that year with illustrations by N C Wyeth, although the dust jacket still wasn't green; that came with a later reprint. It was this later reprint that became probably the first "grown-up" book I ever read, a big step from books like The Phantom Tollbooth and By the Great Horn Spoon, and I was sort of left reeling by the wallop it gave my young mind.
For two years, when I was in 7th and 8th grade, I had a scary and wonderful teacher named Mrs Robinson. She was short and thin and old and strict and had bright red hair and a commanding voice. She imparted discipline and a love of literature in equal measure. During those two years I was in her classes, she was responsible for introducing me to -- among other literary discoveries -- The Yearling, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Cheaper by the Dozen. All three books had a foundational influence on my development as a human being, and all three became lifelong favorites.
After reading The Yearling, I sort of in my mind became Jody for three or four months. Why doesn't that happen anymore? What is it about being an adult that prevents you from becoming part of the book, if not the book becoming part of you, with such ardency as there was in those days?
1 comment:
I think it still happens, if even only a little. When I was reading Sherlock Holmes I started to look for clues everywhere I went. And a friend of mine imagined herself as Katniss when we were on that camping trip in the rain and snow and her one (half) man tent filled with water.
...And I still pretend to use magic when I'm cleaning up and such. Thanks, HP.
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