A revisitation to one of my childhood classics revealed a tragic side of the author's life - that his son, for whom the stories were written for, was killed in an accident when he was but 20.

What causes me to take that sharp breath of horror now as opposed to if I'd actually troubled myself to read the introduction when I was 10? Would my lack of reaction (back then) have stemmed from the bliss of innocence, unscarred by the grief brought upon by death or loss? Or simply apathy? Perhaps a mix of the two.

Mole, Rat, Toad, Black Beauty, Ginger, Buck, Charlotte, Wilbur, Paddington, and a dozen others. I cut my teeth on novels such as these as a child. I wonder if...