The first book I ever got was “Where the Sidewalk Ends”, by Shel Silverstein. The inscription inside reads “Voor Maaike van Oma, 16 Maart 1982”. I was a month and two days old. My mother read it over, and over, and over, and over to me and my brothers. I can recite snippets of it in my sleep, using the same cadence and rythm she did all those years ago.
I don’t know quite how to make a cup that expresses everything this book is to me, or that encompasses the book itself. The poems and the illustrations and the humour of the thing are so very unique.
I’m finding that’s a problem with a number of these books. Some are easy–there’s one or two really strong images that I can use as inspiration, or the feel of the book translates to an elegant shape or a dumpy shape or a frilly-cake-icing shape. But now and then there’s a book that stumps me–it’s either the ones I thought were utterly boring, or the ones that carry layers and layers of meaning.