Great books can do this thing, where they reach an emotional place you might have forgotten about. Not a primary color emotion, but one of the other ones, the kind that when it hits you, you say "Oh! Right—this."
It was flipped open on its front—clearly, hastily abandoned while I was hollering up the stairs, "Put your shoes on!' But that meant that when I was up there, I got to read it.
Joyful and mournful at once. Entirely silly but also grave. Moving and beautiful and an utter delight—this book is no longer something my children will tolerate my reading to them. But they do, I see, read it themselves. And if you have someone smallish and warm in the house, you could read it to your person. It will be (I predict): wonderful.