![]() ![]() To this day, I can recall the pictures of Cinderella’s stepsisters, mutilated feet dripping blood while birds pecked out their eyes…or Bluebird’s wife, gazing at the decapitated corpses of her predecessors as they hung in a row on the dungeon wall…or Rumpelstiltskin, capering around the fire, all but salivating at the prospect of forcing the miller’s daughter to give him her baby. He read poetry, from a book called “A Child’s Garden of Verses.” He read us age-appropriate versions of the Aeneid and the Odyssey, and “A Child’s History of the World.” But the book I remember most vividly was the edition of Grimm’s Fairytales my father had, which were lavishly, graphically illustrated in full color plates. My father was a complicated, troubled man. Every night, the four children would gather in their parents’ big bed, and the father would read to them. ![]() Once upon a time, long, long ago, in a small town in Connecticut, there lived a doctor and a teacher, in a house full of books. ![]()
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