La Vida Es Sueno (And What a Lovely Dream It Is)

Philosophically speaking, I don't really believe life is a dream, but poetically speaking, I can imagine it is, especially after I've spent some time immersed in the luscious colors and poetic imagery of a picture book like A Perfect Season for Dreaming/Un tiempo perfecto para sonar (Cinco Punto Press, 2008) by Benjamin Alire Saenz.  It tells the story of Octavio Rivera, an old man whose summer afternoon siestas have been visited by vibrant and puzzling dreams about objects and people bursting out of a pinata in the sky.  Octavio longs to tell someone about his dreams but fears being laughed at or misunderstood--until it finally occurs to him to tell his granddaughter, Regina, who always tells him her dreams.  What I love about the story is that the dreams are never analyzed, never explained.  They don't turn out to be prophecies of the future or revelations of buried secrets.  They are simply reflections of the mind of the dreamer: abstract, intangible works of art that can only be accessed by those who win the artist's confidence.

I don't know much about art myself, but the paintings that grace the pages of this book are stunning.  The colors are rich, the images fanciful--just what dreams should look like, especially on a summer afternoon.  My favorite part was reading the Spanish translations by Esau Andrade Valencia.  They are lyrical and lovely, and even I, as a non-fluent Spanish speaker, could read them first and then skim the English above to find out if I had missed anything.  (That was a fun exercise for me, but of course, not an essential part of reading the book; I'm just really into bilingual picture books lately, so if you know of a good one, drop me a line.)

If you love picture books that are truly hand-crafted works of art, please don't let the summer end without diving into the dreams of Octavio Rivera.

Any Story That Involves Little People Is OK By Me

But The Borrowers (Harcourt Brace & Co., 1952) by Mary Norton is especially cool.  First of all, I love its explanation of the constant disappearance of things like safety pins.  It is kind of frustrating that I can never seem to find a safety pin when I need one, but I feel better knowing that a Borrower may be putting it to good use as a clothes hanger. 

For those of you who, like me, somehow managed to escape childhood without reading this book, the story begins with a little girl named Kate and a woman named Mrs. May, a distant relative who has become a boarder in Kate's house.  Over their crochet hooks one evening Mrs. May tells Kate a story about her brother's visit, a long time ago, to their ancient Great-Aunt Sophy and her ancient mansion in the English countryside. 

 

One night, while sleeping in a long-unused nursery, the little boy spots a tiny man climbing a curtain with a doll's tea cup in his hand.  The tiny man is Pod, a Borrower who lives under the mansion's kitchen floor and is the husband of Homily (a prim housewife terrified of the upstairs world) and the father of Arrietty (a sheltered girl eager to explore).  Pod and Homily are horrified that he has been "seen," but eventually, the relationship between the boy and the Borrowers leads to quite a bit of excitement.  There's interior decorating (titillating for Homily), a mysterious correspondence with far-off relatives, and finally, terror of discovery by the human adults in the house.

The pen-and-ink illustrations by Beth and Joe Krush are lovely, and it's a lot of fun to read Mary Norton's descriptions of how the Borrowers use their borrowings.  And best of all, the book--first in a series--leaves the reader satisfied enough to walk away but with enough unanswered questions to make it worth it to come back for more.

(By the way, I tried the experiment with Giggle, Giggle, Quack.  Not as funny as Click, Clack, Moo.  It made me smile, though, at the library where I read it.  Isaiah was unamused...but this blog is about adults anyway, right?)