The Secret Garden is a book that haunted my childhood. I hadn't read it before, but I was told its story by my grandmother. One day, in the third grade, I was puking my guts out at school. Me being picked up halfway through school was a rare occurrence, since any time I was remotely ill, I would whine and cry until my mother let me stay home alone and watch TV. On that day, my grandmother picked me up. She drove me home, and instead of letting me watch TV, she spent two hours telling me the story of The Secret Garden.
I always meant to read the book, but by the time I'd forgotten enough of it to enjoy the story, I'd already outgrown it, moving on to Isaac Asimov and Star Wars. The previous two books I've read, Jose Saramago's Blindness and Alice Walker's The Color Purple, are decidedly bleak books. I don't know if I was ready for a book as candy-red as The Secret Garden, but it was pleasant, nonetheless. I think I'll get back into something a tiny bit heavier next.
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