There was a story I remembered for years but didn't know the author or the title. It was such a good story too. A couple weeks ago, I googled a few salient facts about the book and found it. I now own a copy and even though it may be children's literature, it remains a lovely story.
The Little White Horse by Elisabeth Goudge.
I wouldn't be surprised if it was one of the first books I took from the big library. I remember feeling exactly how I felt on reading it when it arrived the other day. I was charmed. And challenged.
The writing is just slightly old fashioned. Not so old that the language doesn't make sense, but that subtle phrasing that is just different. And words. Old fashioned words abound. Heliotrope. Puce.
It was a demanding book for a young person, but I looked a few up in my dictionary and then I was off and running. I kind of feel that way now. Re-readng it is a refresher course in innocence.
I sometimes feel a little bit ashamed about my enjoying children's movies and children's books but I have always read as a form of escape. That I escape into innocence sometimes, is not really surprising. Not to me. I will wander there with joy for a little while and then feel lighter when I have to face the grownup world.