This book and If On A Winter's Night A Traveler sit next to each other amiably on my desk. (I have to check sometimes to make sure they aren't REALLY nudging each other and giggling when no one's looking.) Never has the physical act of reading a text been so hilariously rendered - nor so visually. And the biggest surprise, as the reader gets ever nearer the terrible Monster at the end of the book (against loveable furry ol' Grover's increasingly frantic advice), is surely ... well, that would be telling. But let's just say that the motion of Time - which whirls a kid from one change to the next in all other contexts of her life - is, while she reads this book, put into HER control to an unparalleled degree. And while the child sees herself collaborating - ambivalently but irresistably - with the destructiveness of Time, the end result is revelation, not loss. What greater gift of myth could we give to a child?