Books of My Childhood

Someone asked me what sort of books did I read as a child. I mentioned over a dozen, but the first one that came to mind was The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Maybe because I recently purchased a reprinted edition from a second-hand book shop.

Two different movie versions of The Secret Garden have been produced and neither came close to how I imagined the unfolding of the stories. Well, no movie (to my mind) is ever better than the book. Books let you enter the hearts and minds of the characters; movies can't.

In almost the same breath, I also mentioned The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. Also because I treated myself to a second-hand reprint of this childhood favorite last year. My level of understanding of this book then was different from what it is today, but the level of joy is the same.

C.S. Lewis was a bigger-than-life name in my tiny brain in those days. That's why every so often I still I re-read him (Chronicles of Narnia). Again, I was able to buy on sale a complete set, which I share with my grown-up children.

Hans Christian Andersen was a great source of girlie sighs and swoons. I couldn't afford to buy his books with my meager allowance, so I'd go to a small market stall where books were rented out. I'd sit on the ground for hours after classes and read as much as my 20 centavos could take me.

My uncle Joe in the US was a vital vessel of grace—most of the books above plus classics like Huckleberry Finn, and series like Nancy Drew and Dr. Seuss, plus hardbound Bible parables, were fillers in his balikbayan packages that bore clothes, linens, and toys.

What I forgot to mention, and which was my first reading staple, was Pepe and Pilar, a first grade textbook which I could declaim from memory at age three, according to my mom. I may no longer find a copy of this book today.

Oh, the marvelous readings of childhood! Undiluted memories that purify the sullied soul of adulthood.