Just had the wonderful experience of seeing the sparkling wide-eyed gaze of a kid falling in love with the Seuss. On that note, shoutout to Fox in Socks.

Still, whenever I think of my favourite books, between the Conan Doyle's that entrapped me into a love of the art form, the theatre that defined my teens and the sprawling playgrounds I swoon for now, I always find room for this.

It is not just a beloved friend from the earliest days of a blossoming love affair or an ode from an artist at the very end of their life; one who dedicated their professional career to the tutorage of our most valuable and underserved readers, twisting his last chance to reminiscence into his final and most beautiful lesson. It is evidence of the base power and pleasure of the written word itself.

Seuss was the only modern poet of his calibre to be granted the gift of a license to simplicity. His choice of audience unbound him of everything between complexity and good taste. His words bounce effortlessly with a rhythm completely their own, a giddy evocation of childlike glee born of strenuously overthinking every minute syllabic choice. It is no wonder children gobble his words up, you can feel the musicality in your bones.

In a career built on minimalism, this was his most direct and potent message. As an illustrator, it's the peak of his power, all expressionistic pastel bliss, perhaps the finest showcase of the maximalist instincts he so cannily kept at bay. The first thing I'll read for my kids, should I be so lucky.