Elizabeth Goudge: The Little White Horse

I think of The Little White Horse as a book to which people have a great emotional attachment, a book they speak of as something special, magical: other people, that is, not me. I read it long ago, possibly even as a child, too long ago anyway to remember when it was I first read it. What I do remember is thinking well, that was all right, but what was the fuss about? One or two touches of real magic - the little white horse, half glimpsed in the darkness, stayed with me from that otherwise forgotten reading - but it didn't become part of my world.

I have just re-read it, and my first reaction was no, I still don't get it. But a quick poke ariund the internet suggests I may be looking for the wrong qualities. Two interesting reviews (Maev Kennedy in The Guardian and Mari Ness at Tor.com) place it within a series on comfort reading. My own choice of comfort reading is Peter Wimsey and the Chalet School, but I can see how The Little White Horse might work.

( This would be the point at which to insert a cut, signifying that from here on I will assume you know the book, and / or don't mind hearing how it ends. Also, it's getting quite long. )

In short, I found much to enjoy, to be entertained by and to puzzle over - but still not to love.

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( footnotes )