I read a good book today. It’s lyrical, moving and meaningful without resorting to irony or camp. It avoids contrivance, choosing instead to map the familiar terrain of the heart. There are no 50-cent words, no literary tricks, no dialogue written with the silver screen in mind. It’s a simple story, well told. It is 32 pages long. It comes with color illustrations. It’s aimed at 4-year-olds. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. It’s And If the Moon Could Talk, by Kate Banks, and it is part of my personal literary renaissance.

These days I read a good book just about every day. Sometimes two or three. It’s been that way for years now, ever since Eli graduated from Pat the Bunny and moved on to more sophisticated fare. I had always looked forward to reading to him, to having him nestled up beside me as we turned the pages of a book and turned on the lights of his imagination. But I never knew I would enjoy the books so much.

There’s a quality in the best children’s books that can be hard to find in more grown-up fare. I am not talking only of innocence, wonder, and lots of brightly colored dragons. I’m talking about an eye for the story, a sense of rhythm, a way with words, a feel for emotional truth. I have no problem admitting that many of them are better written than the books on my own bedside table.

I do not like everything I read to Eli and Isabel. I have pondered a selective weeding of their bookcase, deep in the dark of night, hustling the obvious duds into the trash bin and feigning ignorance when asked where they might be. Even some of the classics leave me flat. I can read Dr. Seuss all night long, and Where the Wild Things Are still haunts my dreams, but I have no taste for Corduroy, Eloise, or Curious George. Babar is not nearly as clever as I remember, The Poky Little Puppy is poky indeed, and despite the dogged determination of the title character, The Little Engine That Could puts me straight to sleep. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can make it to the end of this book. At least I hope so.

But these are the exceptions. I read three good children’s books for every bad one, and we own a shelf full of classics old and new, with more coming home from the library every week. And so today I celebrate some recent favorites: Frederick, The Full Belly Bowl, The Adventures of Isabel, The Story of Ferdinand, Billy’s Bucket, Martha the Movie Mouse, The Quiltmaker’s Gift, Strega Nona, Everybody Needs a Rock, Frank Was a Monster Who Wanted to Dance, Ten Minutes to Bedtime, Baboon, Jumanji, Mr. Rabbit and the Lovely Present, Daniel Kirk’s Humpty Dumpty, and, of course, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

They are great books. I could read them again and again. In fact, I do.

(Jay Hardwig is a writer and teacher. He can be reached at smardwig@charter.net)