It’s difficult to pinpoint the first memories I have of reading a book or even having a book read to me directly, and it’s probably more correct to say that I have a nebulous chunk of memories all involving my earliest reading experiences. With that in mind, it’s hard to say anything that involves concrete facts. What I do remember is my earliest feelings about the things I read and the emotional attachment I built around those first books. Most of the books I read early on I think I likely have more attachment to in terms of the situations surrounding them, but the earliest book I remember being read to me was Where the Wild Things Are.

I’m more than certain that other books were read to me before this and that I tried my hand at reading other books myself, but I think those memories stick out the most in my head because they were the first times that I felt a book really resonated with me and made me feel something personal. On a purely surface level, it was visually interesting, different than other picture books. The art was textured and colorful, but was understandable and filled the pages.

In terms of content, I think Where the Wild Things Are stood out because it wasn’t afraid to address the actual feelings of children. Its protagonist was a child who seemed to have actual feelings, and not always of the positive variety. It felt genuine, like it was willing to give children their own agency and self-knowledge. Many of the books that were popular for parents to read for children like the The Berenstain Bears didn’t seem to have that level of understanding and instead came across as being written to children instead of for them.