Book, it's not you, it's me.
I don't know why I didn't love A Bear Called Paddington; on all accounts, its adorable: a cuddly, talking bear, an English setting, accidental mayhem, etc. Perhaps it's the last point listed, but I didn't feel any magic in this story. It just felt like a very drawn out children's book where the bear kept getting in trouble over and over. His accidents didn't seem humorous to me. He was always in trouble for doing silly things, but I always ended up feeling sorry for him. I was actually hoping he wouldn't get in trouble for the remainder of the book because those scenes were just flat-out painful to read.
I wanted to love this book. I adore children's books in all their shapes, sizes and glories. However, the reason I love children's books is because they make me feel warm; there's a taste of that youthful magic we all love in their pages. I love the Disney books and anything by Ronald Dahl because they remind me what it felt like to be young and carefree. This had none of that, not for me, anyway. There was no warmth for Paddington, just exasperated. And that disappointed me.
Saisons - ImagierCzynnik ludzki. Skuteczne przedsięwzięcia i wydajne zespołyUn Reino Lejano / Inside The Kingdom: My Life in Saudi ArabiaLe Morte d'Arthur, Vol 2 (Webster's German Thesaurus)