All you grown-ups out there, can you hear me?
Yes, I mean you, literary experts, analysing the magic of children's literature until it withers and dies under your scrutiny!
You remember Bo Vilhelm Olsson, the boy who sat in Tegnérlunden and felt lonely, and who was then swept away on the most amazing adventure ever, where he got to meet his father and to save the children from a man with a heart of stone (literally, not figuratively made of stone)?
That was by far my favourite story when I was a child, one of the first I read on my own, over and over, tasting the flavour of the fairytale language mixed with the reflection on the hardship of being an orphan in Stockholm city, enjoying the soothing repetition of patterns as if it was a poem.
I read it to my own children too, feeling EXACTLY the same power flowing from the pages when my (then) primary school children cuddled up around me and took in the adventure with silent awe.
And now, at least thirty years after my first reading, and ten after my most recent reading of Mio, Min Mio, I happen to stumble upon a literary analysis that makes my illusion break down like a house of cards.
In the typical language (which I am guilty of myself in my incarnation as a professional) which tends to kill any spirit of any book by adding too much buzzwording and footnoting and too little understanding of what actually constitutes the joy of reading, I find a paragraph referring to "the grown-up reader" next to the child, who "knows it is all an illusion", who "knows that Bo Vilhelm Olsson is still sitting in Tegnérlunden", and that "the adventure only takes place in his head" - that it is all not magical at all.
If that is the way I am supposed to "read" the story as a grown-up, I am quite pleased to stay a child.
Bo Vilhelm Olsson doesn't sit there. He is Mio now, I say! And I think Astrid Lindgren thought the same. Otherwise we could just as well claim Harry never left for Hogwarts...