Yo ho!
I realised that this barely scrapes into 'young adult', but I couldn't find anywhere else to post about the jolly old gay adventures [sic] of Jo, Bessie, Fanny and the gang (and the assorted dwarfs, child-abusing grannies, suspiciously named children and various other characters-that-for-reasons-of-political-correctness-will-remain-unnamed of her other series).
I work in a children's bookshop, and thought it was pretty cool today that a young mum who told me she'd loved Enid Blyton as a kid bought the same books and gave them to her daughter. It instilled in me the notion that perhaps there is hope for these young'uns yet, as well as reminding me of how much I used to (and still do) adore these books.
I first read The Faraway Tree series at something like the age of 7 and I've never stopped loving them, or any other Enid Blyton series. For me these books are forever imbued with the magical innocence of a lost time of good-natured naievete, sandals with long socks and corporal punishment for children. Oh, such times! The children of Blyton's books seem to inhabit flawless worlds where the beauty of nature mingles harmoniously with the simple needs of man: there are always pristine forest glades to explore, fresh eggs and lemonade to consume there, and wondrous lands of fantasy and magic but a winged chair-ride away.
I realise I'm going on a bit, but I'm struggling to find a way to express the delight I still get from Blyton's writing. While I try to find the words, has anyone else here, like me, been so touched by The Faraway Tree, or The Wishing Chair, or Noddy, or whatever else, that they can't walk past a giant tree without craning their necks to see what land is at the top? (That's meant to be some kind of metaphor, interpret it how you will! Or take it literally.)
I realised that this barely scrapes into 'young adult', but I couldn't find anywhere else to post about the jolly old gay adventures [sic] of Jo, Bessie, Fanny and the gang (and the assorted dwarfs, child-abusing grannies, suspiciously named children and various other characters-that-for-reasons-of-political-correctness-will-remain-unnamed of her other series).
I work in a children's bookshop, and thought it was pretty cool today that a young mum who told me she'd loved Enid Blyton as a kid bought the same books and gave them to her daughter. It instilled in me the notion that perhaps there is hope for these young'uns yet, as well as reminding me of how much I used to (and still do) adore these books.
I first read The Faraway Tree series at something like the age of 7 and I've never stopped loving them, or any other Enid Blyton series. For me these books are forever imbued with the magical innocence of a lost time of good-natured naievete, sandals with long socks and corporal punishment for children. Oh, such times! The children of Blyton's books seem to inhabit flawless worlds where the beauty of nature mingles harmoniously with the simple needs of man: there are always pristine forest glades to explore, fresh eggs and lemonade to consume there, and wondrous lands of fantasy and magic but a winged chair-ride away.
I realise I'm going on a bit, but I'm struggling to find a way to express the delight I still get from Blyton's writing. While I try to find the words, has anyone else here, like me, been so touched by The Faraway Tree, or The Wishing Chair, or Noddy, or whatever else, that they can't walk past a giant tree without craning their necks to see what land is at the top? (That's meant to be some kind of metaphor, interpret it how you will! Or take it literally.)