It always amazes me where used bookshops keep their children's books.
While Calvino and Joyce, Miller and Faulkner, or Rabelais and Proust get prime front of store spots; E.B. White, Jean de la Fontaine, and Roald Dahl get stuck at the dead end of narrow alleyways lined with tall bookshelves. A passage so cramped I began to understand how dental floss must feel.
Still, now that I'm embarking upon the great endeavor of writing a children's book, I wanted to scope out some of my lesser-known competition. What I didn't expect was that the journey would remind me of what I loved to read when I was a child.
When I was seven years old my father took me to Paris where my parents unofficially "lived" since they traveled so much for work. My first memories of the Eiffel Tower, The Arc Triomphe, or any other major tourist site are most easily recalled from the much later age of 9, when I was soooo grown up that my only interest in Paris was MTV and that I could buy Madonna cassettes to bring back to Africa with me.
Only one vivid memory has stayed with me all these years. My first trip to Shakespeare and Co. where I bounced on the bed much to George Whitman's delight, unaware that while I feared bedbugs they didn't really exist unless you let them bite you, you were safe - except they did exist and I was in my childish ignorance probably scaring them for once. After a good jump, my father bought me my very first English book, The Trumpet of the Swan by E.B. White.
Thanks to Madonna and a stint of schooling in the States, I eventually did read the book in its original language; but before I could read in English I stared at the very simply illustrated book cover and imagined what might be happening inside the book I couldn't read. In my mind the swan holding the trumpet under his snowy feathered wing played in smoky jazz joints and incited soldiers to charge forth towards victory - each time I glimpsed at the drawings inside I made up a story and upon seeing real swans refused to believe that they didn't all have a trumpet stashed away under their wings and that only stagefright (a condition I thought plagued all swans) kept them from honouring me with an impromptu concert, even when I gave up both of the ends of my baguette to encourage them.
To see this book again, now that I am older and have read some of those grown up books, gave me such a feeling of joy. It seemed in that childish place in my heart that book was still vibrating with its story. Despite all of my fanciful imaginings the story I didn't imagine brought back all the stories I had. I saw again what I described to my father as the special neck exercises the swans did in order to be able to play long notes; me mimicking the motion as I circled the desk in his study.
It might seem like a strange idea to take your child to a book store in Paris, but don't let the language barrier stop you. If the cramped alleyways seem troublesome, turn it into part of the adventure.
Your stay in Paris might be a week or two, but a good book is a journey that takes a lifetime.
While Calvino and Joyce, Miller and Faulkner, or Rabelais and Proust get prime front of store spots; E.B. White, Jean de la Fontaine, and Roald Dahl get stuck at the dead end of narrow alleyways lined with tall bookshelves. A passage so cramped I began to understand how dental floss must feel.
Still, now that I'm embarking upon the great endeavor of writing a children's book, I wanted to scope out some of my lesser-known competition. What I didn't expect was that the journey would remind me of what I loved to read when I was a child.
When I was seven years old my father took me to Paris where my parents unofficially "lived" since they traveled so much for work. My first memories of the Eiffel Tower, The Arc Triomphe, or any other major tourist site are most easily recalled from the much later age of 9, when I was soooo grown up that my only interest in Paris was MTV and that I could buy Madonna cassettes to bring back to Africa with me.
Only one vivid memory has stayed with me all these years. My first trip to Shakespeare and Co. where I bounced on the bed much to George Whitman's delight, unaware that while I feared bedbugs they didn't really exist unless you let them bite you, you were safe - except they did exist and I was in my childish ignorance probably scaring them for once. After a good jump, my father bought me my very first English book, The Trumpet of the Swan by E.B. White.
Thanks to Madonna and a stint of schooling in the States, I eventually did read the book in its original language; but before I could read in English I stared at the very simply illustrated book cover and imagined what might be happening inside the book I couldn't read. In my mind the swan holding the trumpet under his snowy feathered wing played in smoky jazz joints and incited soldiers to charge forth towards victory - each time I glimpsed at the drawings inside I made up a story and upon seeing real swans refused to believe that they didn't all have a trumpet stashed away under their wings and that only stagefright (a condition I thought plagued all swans) kept them from honouring me with an impromptu concert, even when I gave up both of the ends of my baguette to encourage them.
To see this book again, now that I am older and have read some of those grown up books, gave me such a feeling of joy. It seemed in that childish place in my heart that book was still vibrating with its story. Despite all of my fanciful imaginings the story I didn't imagine brought back all the stories I had. I saw again what I described to my father as the special neck exercises the swans did in order to be able to play long notes; me mimicking the motion as I circled the desk in his study.
It might seem like a strange idea to take your child to a book store in Paris, but don't let the language barrier stop you. If the cramped alleyways seem troublesome, turn it into part of the adventure.
Your stay in Paris might be a week or two, but a good book is a journey that takes a lifetime.
