Somehow this one didn’t come off as charming as the original. It felt like more of the same, only primarily without the sand fairy (he’s only ever off-stage in this story) and with a phoenix and a flying carpet replacing it. Although I did find the phoenix occasionally amusing and was sad (like Robert) to see it go at the end.
It had amusing narration and dialogue, like the first book, though not on quite the same ratio. Still, here are a few selections for your enjoyment:
“Anthea was rummaging in the corner-drawers of her mind for a very disagreeable answer,”
And:
“I think we ought to test them,” he said.
“You young duffer,” said Cyril, “fireworks are like postage-stamps. You can only use them once.”
And:
“We’ve got the pleasure of memory,” said she. “Just think of last holidays.”
“I don’t want to think about the pleasures of memory,” said Cyril; “I want some more things to happen.”
“We’re very much luckier than anyone else, as it is,” said Jane. “Why, no one else ever found a Psammead. We ought to be grateful.”
“Why shouldn’t we go on being, though?” Cyril asked—“lucky, I mean, not grateful. Why’s it all got to stop?”
“Perhaps something will happen,” said Anthea, comfortably. “Do you know, sometimes I think we are the sort of people that things do happen to.”
“It’s like that in history,” said Jane: “some kings are full of interesting things, and others—nothing ever happens to them, except their being born and crowned and buried, and sometimes not that.”
“I think Panther’s right,” said Cyril: “I think we are the sort of people things do happen to. I have a sort of feeling things would happen right enough if we could only give them a shove. It just wants something to start it. That’s all.”
And:
“You are a sensible child,” said the Phoenix, “and I will not vanish or anything sudden. And I will tell you my tale. I had resided, as your book says, for many thousand years in the wilderness, which is a large, quiet place with very little really good society, and I was becoming weary of the monotony of my existence. But I acquired the habit of laying my egg and burning myself every five hundred years—and you know how difficult it is to break yourself of a habit.”
“Yes,” said Cyril; “Jane used to bite her nails.”
“But I broke myself of it,” urged Jane, rather hurt, “You know I did.”
And:
“ So that evening the Phoenix snugged inside the waistcoat of Robert’s Etons—a very tight fit it seemed both to Robert and to the Phoenix—and was taken to the play.
Robert had to pretend to be cold at the glittering, many-mirrored restaurant where they ate dinner, with father in evening dress, with a very shiny white shirtfront, and mother looking lovely in her grey evening dress, that changes into pink and green when she moves. Robert pretended that he was too cold to take off his greatcoat, and so sat sweltering through what would otherwise have been a most thrilling meal. He felt that he was a blot on the smart beauty of the family, and he hoped the Phoenix knew what he was suffering for its sake. Of course, we are all pleased to suffer for the sake of others, but we like them to know it unless we are the very best and noblest kind of people, and Robert was just ordinary.”