The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore
William Joyce
I really have no need to browse children’s books anymore, but long ago in a life far away, I did work in a children’s bookstore–and sighed over more powerfully sweet stories and gorgeous illustrations than I can remember. So as my daughter and I were leaving the mall bookstore on the weekend before Christmas, I wasn’t expecting to be stopped in my tracks by a children’s book. Nor was I expecting to hear one call my name so loudly. But Mr. Morris Lessmore, bless his heart, not only spoke to me, but reached out and grabbed my arm: Morris Lessmore loved words. He loved stories. He loved books. His life was a book of his own writing, one orderly page after another. He would open it every morning and write of his joys and sorrows, of all that he knew and everything he hoped for.
And as happens in most of our lives, the skies darkened and trouble blew in and around Mr. Morris Lessmore. It was the books who saved him … as they’ve saved me so many times. I’ve read The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore several times in as many hours. It is my story, too.
[Surprise, friend D!]
This is my symphony 