So apparently not all childrens' books are about polar bears and hippos. Some of them feature anthropomorphic tabs of acid giving moralistic life lessons. Nice.
But man, this takes me back. Being mesmerized by the primary colors. The simple lines. The archetypal protagonists. The uncluttered, dependable narrative arc.
Apparently the Mr. Men books turned 35 this week (seriously, they couldn't come up with a less chauvanistic name? At the height of second-wave feminism?), and in all honesty, if I hadn't stumbled across this at the BBC, I probably would have never remembered (or cared).
But here it has been three days since that article was published, and I still can't get these things out of my head. Am I just wigging out or something? Whoa...
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