I had a guy at one of my tables today who reminded me of someone I used to know. I felt like he did, anyway. Older gentleman, tall, big ears, long nose. When I dropped off their drinks, it struck me. The BFG.
(This is the cover that I read with, and it’s the only one I could find like it. Ignore the caption above. :P)
Who remembers the big friendly giant? The man who reached through a window, snatched a little girl out of her bed, and drew her into a fantasy world. I don’t remember the details, but I do remember one thing: the magic I felt as a young kid, feeling the little girl’s wonder and amazement at someone so big yet so friendly and sweet, different from her but just like her as well. This book was one of my all-time favorites.
Thinking about it as I went about my tasks today I realized that if I were to reread this book right now, at age 21, enrolled in college, the book would not be the same. It would be…. less. Less magical, less captivating, just less. And that saddens me. At what age do we lose the wonder of the world that a child has. There is no age, it’s experience that does it. Experiencing life and her trials and tests. The cruelty of the world revealing itself as you begin to understand more about it.
The womb is safe, warm, cozy, and peaceful. A baby is thrust into the world. And as the baby grows and develops, learns and comprehends, the safe, warm, coziness disappears. Suddenly the world isn’t so peaceful anymore. It’s cruel, cold, dark, restless. Is it good or bad to lose our child innocence? Does it do us any good either way?
I wish I could go back and read this book with the same eyes as I had as a young girl. It’s like watching movies I enjoyed as a kid. Something about them is different, off…. and less. Just less.
It almost seems as if we know more about the world at a young age, through the eyes of a child, than we do when we grow up. Could we ever get that perspective back? I doubt it.