In Where the Wild Things Are, the story starts out with Max being sent to his room for being naughty. I recall reading something many years ago about how this particular story caused such a brouhaha among the child psychologists of the day. My youth was filled with stories that would move me to anger, laughter, sorrow, and every other deep emotion good writers have the power to evoke. I was lucky to have parents and grandparents who told me stories out of books, as well as regaling me with stories from their lives. Perhaps the family is so undermined these days by the relentless culture that imposes itself on every free moment of the day, into every aspect of life, that it is basically fighting a losing war.
Books are fraught with therapy and psychobabble, and television shows are preachy and simplistic.
Every good thing has been stripped from storytelling that once engaged the mind and soul, and the only things left to appeal to are the emptiness and guilt that are associated with mind-manipulation. My children are now old enough to revel in the writing of C. S. Lewis and Roald Dahl. I can t wait until they desire greater intellectual challenges. I am thankful that I had a father who made me listen to classical music and jazz. Geez, it s getting hot in here, now.