The Best Book in the World

You can thank or blame Clara for today's book review.

For some time now, Clara has been persistently bugging me (as only Clara can do (she has the most pitch-perfect whining voice ever)) to read a book.  Not just any book--which I suppose is obvious because she, like the Reader, knows that I do, in fact, read books in general--but a specific book.  A book that is, according to Clara, The Best Book in the World.  And, since Clara has read Said Book, it is also, necessarily, The Best Book Clara has Ever Read.  Now, lest you be unduly impressed with Clara's prodigious reading talents, said Best Book in the World is not, as the unsuspecting Reader might Suspect, War and Peace or Hamlet or Confessions or the Collected Poems of T.S. Eliot or the Divine Comedy.  While Clara, if she had read any of those books would presumably be willing to acknowledge that books such as those are good, perhaps even very good, they cannot be anywhere Nearly as Good as The Best Book in the World.

Until recently, I had resisted Clara's insistent demand (in the aforementioned whiny voice)  (By the way, Clara, if she ever reads this post, will immediately say to me, "I don't have a whiny voice" and when she says that, she will be using her whiny voice--and even the fact that I have now predicted that she will whine in such a manner about how she doesn't whine will not prevent her from doing exactly that--you see, she can't help herself.)  (But, lest the Reader get the wrong impression, she is a Very Good Whiner.  Very Good; indeed, Excellent.  Much better than her sisters.), but things had changed (and, yes, I am aware that the Reader was forced to go back to the Point before the parenthetical asides began to recall the beginning of this sentence) of late, and I came to the Realization, that perhaps by Reading The Best Book in the World, I could attain a Secondary Objective.  (The primary objective was, of course, reading The Best Book in the World--or, at least determining if Said Book merited Said Moniker--after all, I have now heard said book called The Best Book in the World more frequently than I have heard any other book ever written called that--the fact that every application of the honorific to the title in question was provided by my daughter does not change the fact that I have heard the designation/book title combination more frequently than I have seen a lesser work like Hamlet designated as The Best.)

The Secondary Objective mentioned in the preceding paragraph was to stop Clara from whining about Hans Christian Andersen.

Some explanation may be in order.  For several years, my wife and I (well, mostly the latter) have been insisting that our children read Books of Merit.  Emma and Lily have long been handed books and given a two week period of time in which to finish said books.  Emma has dutifully read a vast sum of great literature in the last half-dozen years; Lily has sporadically read great literature over the last 4 years.  This year, we started Clara on her own Personalized Reading Program.  On October 16th, I handed her a collection of tales by Hans Christian Anderson and a list of the more noteworthy tales to read.  Now, mind, Hans Christian Andersen wrote short stories, indeed, he wrote short "short stories"--many of them are 4 whole pages in length.  They are, as the reader is aware, famous tales.  So, Clara's assignment for the latter half of October was actually a remarkably short assignment.  (Emma, by way of contrast is reading 1984.  She likes it, I am happy to report.)  Upon seeing the book, Clara began whining (have I ever mentioned how good she is at that activity?).  She didn't like the cover of the book, and as I mentioned in some prior post, Clara is a Judge-a-Book-by-its-Cover aficionado.  So, she whined and whined and whined about how she didn't want to read that book.

Then I had an idea (a wonderful awful idea).  I obtained a copy of the Best Book in the World from the UMass library (note that the Mount Holyoke library, much to my surprise, does not have The Best Book in the World.  The Mount Holyoke Library is obviously run by Philistines.)  I brought it home, and sat down in a chair to read with Clara.  She started whining about her book.  I said I was just stating mine.  Then she looked at my book--now note, I had the hard cover version without a dust jacket, so it was not possible to tell what book I was reading--and declared that my book was "weird" (Clara calls every book I read "weird").  I asked why she thought it was weird and showed her the title.  She became immediately and ridiculously excited and happy.  Ah, I thought, my plan is working.  I then noted that since I was reading the book she told me I should read, she could surely read the book I told her to read without whining.  She started whining.  My plan failed. I read the book anyway, but every time I picked it up, I had the bitter aftertaste of disappointment and defeat.

But, now to the book review itself  The Best Book in the World is:
Trenton Lee Stewart, The Mysterious Benedict Society

The review:  Robert Ludlum for children.  I think I would have enjoyed the book a lot when I was Clara's age (11 for those of you keeping score at home).  It has a team of kids who are Supertalented joining with the Uber-Brilliant Mr Benedict to thwart the nefarious and Evil plans of World Domination by a Secret Society.  Said Secret Society is Insanely Powerful, said group of Children have nothing but their wits, and thus an epic clash between an Evil Organization with unlimited funds and manpower against a group of pre-teens.  Guess who wins in the end?

So, not a bad book if you are young enough.  But, the Best Book in the World?  Sorry, Clara.  Not even close.