Neither thumbs up nor thumbs down for Peter Pan by J. M. Barrie. Children’s.
Some witty bits, but as I didn’t care for or about Peter it quickly became tiresome. Even all of the Freudian weirdness going on here couldn’t keep my attention from drifting. My copy had illustrations by Arthur Rackham, which are of course fantastic, but they were plunked into the text with seeming randomness, so even they fell a bit flat.
Of course they lived at 14, and until Wendy came her mother was the chief one. She was a lovely lady, with a romantic mind and such a sweet mocking mouth. Her romantic mind was like the tiny boxes, one within the other, that come from the puzzling East, however many you discover there is always one more; and her sweet mocking mouth had one kiss on it that Wendy could never get, though there it was, perfectly conspicuous in the right-hand corner.
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