I read James Thurber’s The 13 Clocks from the library years ago, liked a lot, and then forgot almost everything about it during the time it was on my “look for in used bookstores” list. It’s just been reprinted, and Chad bought me a copy as a gift.
I was pleased to rediscover that it is indeed a lovely book, though I am puzzled why Neil Gaiman’s introduction asserts that it’s not a fairy tale. I mean, this is the first paragraph:
Once upon a time, in a gloomy castle on a lonely hill, where there were thirteen clocks that wouldn’t go, there lived a cold, aggressive Duke, and his niece, the Princess Saralinda. She was warm in every wind and weather, but he was always cold. His hands were as cold as his smile and almost as cold as his heart. He wore gloves when he was asleep, and he wore gloves when he was awake, which made it difficult for him to pick up pins or coins or the kernels of nuts, or to tear the wings from nightingales. He was six feet four, and forty-six, and even colder than he thought he was. . . . His nights were spent in evil dreams, and his days were given to wicked schemes.
Also there is a prince, spells, impossible quests, and at least two indescribable things.
I would prefer that Saralinda were just a little less soppy, but the joy of the language almost entirely carries me past that; this is one of the rare books that I want to read aloud. If only FutureBaby would deign to arrive, already . . . (The illustrations, by Marc Simont, are also charming.)