Looking back at all these treasured books, it's hard to find any unifying theme. Why did I love them so much? I don't know.
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One of my fondest memories of raising my children was cuddling up at bedtime with a book and reading together. 
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The book pretends to be about Philippe Petit. But its hidden subject is about how those who listen are supposed to act in the face of fear. What if there are winds swirling, and what if material objects—even the most massive ones imaginable--turn out to be anything but fixed and permanent?
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I just remember it was the girls crowding around my dad, and it was a very special time. Each week, he put aside his work and read us a chapter.
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