Children's books

Friday Mom was recently asked about a book she loved as a child (my biography of Abe Lincoln was the story of Helen Keller's teacher, Annie Sullivan) and that got me thinking about all the books I loved as a kid (and still reread, quite often).
My grandmother gave me a beautiful red, faux-leatherbound copy of Black Beauty when I was 5 or 6. It had a laminated picture of Beauty in the centre of the cover and for as long as I can remember the corner of the plastic curled up so I would flick it constantly as I read and sobbed my heart out because why couldn't poor Beauty just stay the first stable that he loved? Why did he have to go through all that hardship, interspersed with only enough happiness to be disappointed when it was taken away? I kept rereading that one, but many of my favourite books were too sad to read often (I am David, Hurry Home Candy, even fairy tales) although I did kind of like tales of misery and torture in a way.
I used to mistake Tom's Midnight Garden for the Secret Garden and then be terribly disappointed when I got home from the library and opened the book, so I never had a proper appreciation for the former. I still read way too fast for details to stick in my memory unless I reread (and even then I always find something new, or lose a scene I'm sure I read). I've also made it more than halfway through a book before I'm sure I've actually read it before.
I've always had a guilty fondness for trashy books too - the Babysitters Club, choose your own adventures (carefully marking the pages with choices to be sure I read every possible version) and particularly Enid Blyton. My infuriation and disgust at the pseudofeminist wannabe-boy George; insipid, pathetic Anne and smug, patronising Dick and Julian didn't stop me devouring Famous Five books for years. I wanted to go to Boarding school with the Naughtiest Girl, be a monitor at St Clare's and learn french and german at the Chalet School.
The Phantom Tollbooth inspired a love of language-play that paved the way for Douglas Adams fandom and characters like Meg Murry and Vicky Austin gave me hope I wouldn't always be an awkward, ugly duckling.
Reading has always been a way of escape (although, "Books don't offer real escape but they can stop a mind scratching itself raw" (David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas)), a way of seeing that there are other people suffering too and many much worse off than me. Yet, they can still grow up to have real friends and relationships and be happy and at peace with themselves and fit in. For the last few years I've constantly been surprised and alarmed when I realise how old I am and I think it's because I'm supposed to have sorted out all my issues and be living happily ever after by now, but I'm still waiting to meet someone who'll help me learn that it's okay to be me. I'm still waiting for my transformation into a swan.