I wondered if that was true: if they were all really children wrapped up in adult bodies, like children’s books hidden in the middle of dull, long adult books, the kind with no pictures or conversations.
Adult stories never made sense, and they were slow to start. They made me feel like there were secrets, Masonic, mythic secrets, to adulthood. Why didn’t adults want to read about Narnia, about secret islands and smugglers and dangerous fairies?
I can become someone else, not out of pressure and desperation, but merely because a new life sounds fun or interesting or joyful.
More and more, cultural groups are cross-pollinating, and we’re getting much more interesting art as a result.