Fairy tales are an age-old source of wisdom. Why else have they stood the test of time so well? Cinderella ought to do all she can to leave the ball before midnight; Red Riding Hood ought be wary of the wolf and his cajoling voice; Sleeping Beauty ought to keep her finger far from the irresistible temptation of the spindle; Snow White ought to evade the hunters, and nothing on earth should tempt her to take a bite from the oh-so-red, mouthwatering apple that fate holds out to her.
So many warnings that every child would be wise to follow to the letter.
One of my very first books was the collected stories of the Brothers Grimm. I read it so often, eventually it began to fall apart—the stitches beneath the thick cardboard cover grew frayed, and then the pages began to peel away one by one. I was inconsolable at the loss. Even though these wonderful stories spoke to me of timeless legends, books themselves were earthly objects, destined for the scrap heap.
Before I could even read or write, I used to make books with whatever I had at hand: newspapers, magazines, cardboard, sticky tape, string. As solid as possible. First the object. My interest in the content came later.
Today, I view books with suspicion. A glass wall has been erected between them and me. I know they can be poison. I recognize the toxic load they can contain.
For many years I paced around my cage, my dreams filled with murder and revenge. Until the day when the solution finally presented itself to me, like something that was completely obvious: Why not ensnare the hunter in his own trap, ambush him within the pages of a book?