These books I had heard about and, in my precocious desire to immerse myself in literature, wanted desperately to read. The first book I checked out, blushing furiously as I handed it across to an amused looking librarian, was Anna Karenina. Later that day, already holding strong opinions on whether or not Dolly should take Stiva back, I pulled all the children's books off the shelves in my bedroom and threw them in a box under my bed. The empty wall space was ready for the next stage of my reading. Almost a quarter century later when my fifth novel, but first children's book, was about to be published, I had an urge to reacquaint myself with some of those books I had loved as a boy and went...
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