A sound Ph.D. dissertation could be written on the curious phenomenon of children's literature written by childless authors. From Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll to Dr. Seuss and Maurice Sendak, the phenomenon persists. The incidence is too high to be coincidental. Perhaps the writers substitute audience for family. Perhaps, like Beatrix Potter, they seem more comfortable in the domain of childhood, where fantasy is the norm and reality the intruder.
Born into the stifling world of Victoriana, little Beatrix lived in a universe of iron stricture. There were bars on her bedroom windows; a...
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