I must confess that this book had a rather unfortunate impact upon my young life, when I read it at the age of nine. For years afterwards I fantazised about running away from home and living in the Metropolitan Museum of Art like the book's heroine Claudia, and her little brother Jamie. Several times, in replication of their actions, I would fill my music case full of clean underwear and my school napsack full of my life savings, just in case I got the nerve to abscond to New York City and set up housekeeping amongst the plush, perfectly-preserved beds of 18th-century gentry. I never did, but the book still gave me a wonderful role model in the persona of the practical, intellectual, tidy, yet fiercely romantic Claudia that has lasted throughout my life. It also inspired a deep affection for Michelangelo's art, as the book's plot (besides the adventures of the young runaways) centers on the children's obsession with determining whether one the museum's recent acquisitions is an authentic work of the Master's. I remember so many wonderful, physical details of this book--the two siblings bathing in the fountain of the museum and collecting the change to feed themselves at the automat, Claudia posing and prodding her younger brother to say that she resembles the statue in question (of course, he maddeningly and purposefully refuses to understand her), and of course the mysterious instrument cases of dirty underwear found by the museum staff once the children have left. They go home to their parents, but without regretting what they have done, and all ends happily. The book is both absurd, amoral, and wonderfully rich in memorable physical detail, as is all great children's literature