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The book I'm reading now is called "The Little White Bird" by J. M. Barrie. It's strange and whimsical and fun.
Here's the set-up. (This is all in the beginning of the book, so it's not really spoilery. The book explains the situation and then jumps back in time 6 years to fill in what happened along the way.)
There's a crotchety old man who sits in his club and looks out the window. The highlight of his day is looking out the window at precisely 2pm to see a woman walk by and post a love letter. Time and again, when something goes wrong for her, he gets upset and secretly helps her.
Eventually, she manages to track down her beloved guardian angel, but he clings to his "I'm a crotchety old man who's too good to talk to the lower classes" facade so strongly that he refuses to speak a word to her. By that point, however, she has a son, and he winds up spending time with the kid on a regular basis. They play in the park and make up stories. And that's what the book is about.
The fairies who live in the park but only come out at night when the humans are gone. The stories of what happened to some kid or other who was playing in this corner of the park. The revelation that when parents catch a bird in the park, it becomes a baby (that's where babies come from, you see), and if you think back really hard, you can remember what it was like to be a bird.
And, of course, the story of a baby who remembered how to fly, and left his mother to live on an island in the park and play with the fairies. A baby boy named Peter Pan.
It may not be entirely appropriate for today's kids, but it's a lot of fun for a grown-up (or older kid) who likes to dream about the magical things happening just past the corner of your eye.
Here's the set-up. (This is all in the beginning of the book, so it's not really spoilery. The book explains the situation and then jumps back in time 6 years to fill in what happened along the way.)
There's a crotchety old man who sits in his club and looks out the window. The highlight of his day is looking out the window at precisely 2pm to see a woman walk by and post a love letter. Time and again, when something goes wrong for her, he gets upset and secretly helps her.
Eventually, she manages to track down her beloved guardian angel, but he clings to his "I'm a crotchety old man who's too good to talk to the lower classes" facade so strongly that he refuses to speak a word to her. By that point, however, she has a son, and he winds up spending time with the kid on a regular basis. They play in the park and make up stories. And that's what the book is about.
The fairies who live in the park but only come out at night when the humans are gone. The stories of what happened to some kid or other who was playing in this corner of the park. The revelation that when parents catch a bird in the park, it becomes a baby (that's where babies come from, you see), and if you think back really hard, you can remember what it was like to be a bird.
And, of course, the story of a baby who remembered how to fly, and left his mother to live on an island in the park and play with the fairies. A baby boy named Peter Pan.
It may not be entirely appropriate for today's kids, but it's a lot of fun for a grown-up (or older kid) who likes to dream about the magical things happening just past the corner of your eye.