The 13 Clocks
While in another sort of book, this would be incredibly purple prose, in James Thurbur’s The 13 Clocks it’s delightful and I had a great time reading it to my daughter as she snuggled in bed, eyes peaking over the covers she’d pulled up around her:
The brambles and the thorns grew thick and thicker in a ticking thicket of bickering crickets. Farther along and stronger, bonged the gongs of a throng of frogs, green and vivid on their lily pads. From the sky came the crying of flies, and the pilgrims leaped over a bleating sheep creeping knee-deep in a sleepy stream, in which swift and slippery snakes slid and slithered silkily, whispering sinful secrets (p. 73).
My daughter loves suspense and loves the scary parts of good stories. I love that about her. I often pause in the middle and ask if I should stop there, and she says, “No!” When I ask why, she says, “Because I love it!”
And so she loved the parts about the Todal, which looks like a blob of glup, is made entirely of lip, makes a sound like rabbits screaming, smells of old, unopened rooms, and moves like monkeys and like shadows, and I loved seeing her pull the covers higher until they’re just below her gleaming eyes.