This book has been written for children. I have no shame in
acknowledging that I, who wrote it, am also a child; for since I can
remember my eyes have always grown big at tales of the marvelous, and
my heart is still accustomed to go pit-a-pat when I read of impossible
adventures. It is the nature of children to scorn realities, which
crowd into their lives all too quickly with advancing years. Childhood
is the time for fables, for dreams, for joy.
These stories are not true; they could no be true and be so marvelous.
No one is expected to believe them; they were meant to excite laughter
and to gladden the heart.
Perhaps some of those big, grown-up people will poke fun of us--at you
for reading these nonsense tales of the Magical Monarch, and at me for
writing them. Never mind. Many of the big folk are still children--even
as you and I. We cannot measure a child by a standard of size or age.
The big folk who are children will be our comrades; the others we need
not consider at all, for they are self-exiled from our domain.