I was just flipping through a recent back issue of the New Yorker and discovered that one of the highlights of my childhood was based on a lie (a lie, I tell you!):
The mother of all bedtime stories, "Goodnight Moon," by Margaret Wise Brown, will turn sixty next year. ... At the time that it appeared, Brown was thirty-seven and a well-established children's writer; among her many acclaimed picture books were "The Runaway Bunny" and "Little Fur Family." Still, she didn't quite fit, or want to fit, the role of beloved children's author; her real ambition was to write for grownups. Brown never married—her affairs were conducted with members of both sexes—and had no children. When she wasn't making up tales about soft little bunnies, she liked to watch them get ripped to pieces; a fan of running to hounds, Brown was a charter member of an exclusive Long Island hunting club known as the Buckram Beagles. Asked about this apparent conflict in an interview with Life, Brown replied, "Well, I don't especially like children, either. At least not as a group. I won't let anybody get away with anything just because he is little."
Is it wrong that I kind of love her for this?