seems to be a favorite target, like New York is for movies.)
Honestly, it had never dawned on me that he was an adult author. In junior high, I had read the White Mountains series over and over, and of course, adored them. This book was published in 1956; and the copy I purchased to read was published in 1971, just a little before I started reading that spooky series that touched on some of the same themes, such as the nature of civilization, and the loss of innocence. But what a true surprise: I had absolutely no idea that he had been such a big influence on my writing, if not for technique, then for mood and tone. This book had a bittersweet wistfulness, a seasonality, and almost mystical wind in this story that I can see faintly repeated in my own stories.
I am glad I read this book now, with a background in biology and agriculture... and having visited London twice this last year... and I look forward to reading his other books.
The lessons this book offers, I may have actually already internalized, so it is difficult to explain them. I’ll
give it a try. Writing should truly go beyond describing something creative and giving the reader a visual idea of what is going on: it should evoke something in the reader that they can’t quite name, but identify with instantly. How in the hell can I quantify that? All I know is that it has to do with a sleekness in writing that is almost poetry, finding the exact right word that hits the right tone. It comes back to deconstruction,
maybe? I don’t know: that may be one of the goals I will explore during the rest of my reading list.