Claire and I are now reading E. B. White's Stuart Little.
As I read it to her, I catch glimpse of myself as a child, reading this story and absolutely delighting in it. I vividly remember examining the illustration of the little cigarette box that Stuart uses as a bed. I remember being disgusted with Snowbell the cat. I remember wishing that I could somehow be transported into Stuart's world and drive around in his little car.
I long for that childhood experience again. My adult sensibilities push out my 9 year old self. They bring up annoying questions and comments: It's not possible for Mr. and Mrs. Frederick C. Little to have a son who is a mouse. Why is it that nobody steps on Stuart's car? Where does he get gas? The storekeeper smokes a cigarette? How does Stuart age so fast?
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