The imagination fed on truth knows that the serpent is a symbol of hatred and deceit, of evil knowledge and power without conscience” (37). Drawing from Anglo-Saxon legends and traditional myths, O’Brien writes that “the well-nourished imagination knows that dragons are not frightening because of fangs, scales, and smoke pouring from nostrils. He uses the example of dragons to explain how modern culture has taken what used to be an unquestionable symbol of evil and has slowly turned it into a creature that is pitiable, a misunderstood victim of sorts. A father of six, O’Brien includes many anecdotes of his own children as he explains the development of his ideas about which stories are good for kids and which are harmful. More than that, it’s an exploration of how stories and their use of images and universal symbols shape a child’s spiritual sensitivity and moral compass. Landscape is a study on the shaping of a child’s imagination.
One of O’Brien’s books, A Landscape with Dragons: The Battle for Your Child’s Mind, has prompted me to approach our inventory of children’s stories with a more critical eye. World Literature got its own case, which we recently augmented with several books by Canadian author Michael D. (Such trials are typical of two newly wed English teachers, I hear.) But I now admit that it’s fitting to have Chaucer and Shakespeare on the lowest shelf, providing a foundation for the pages of Austen, Eliot, and Lewis stacked above them.
This rather unconventional method required a tedious study of publication dates and probably my first true submission of will. Zach agreed to keep the continents distinct, but insisted on a reverse chronological ordering within each case.
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It took several hours simply to decide how to organize them: I preferred alphabetizing by author last name with separate bookcases, of course, for British and American Literature. When my husband and I got married, the mingling of our bookshelves was a ceremony nearly as sacred as the wedding itself. Our little library is our most prized possession. For these boxes-kindly donated by our neighborhood liquor store-contain, alas, not bottles, but books. While I certainly wish we had an endless suppy of Grey Goose, Jagermeister, and Arrogant Bastard Ale, I’m afraid the labels are deceiving. It’s quite a varied collection, as if we were hosting a party devoted to unlikely cocktail combinations. A waist-high stack of liquor boxes runs the length of my dining room wall.
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