When I was a kid, grandpa Portman’s fantastic stories meant it was possible to live a magical life. Even after I stopped believing in them, there was still something magical about my grandfather. To have endured all the horrors he did, to have seen the worst of humanity and have your life made unrecognizable by it, to come out of all that the honorable and good and brave person I knew him to be–that was magical. So I couldn’t believe he was a liar and a cheater and a bad father. Because if grandpa Portman wasn’t honorable and good, I wasn’t sure anyone could be.
–Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children (Ransom Riggs)
If there is a bright side to my accident five days ago, leaving me temporarily handicapped (I miss you my left arm! Please get well soon!), it would be giving me lots of time to rest at home and to finish this book by Ransom Riggs.
Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children is a unique treat. Remember the time when you were young, reading children’s books that contain pictures or illustrations? This book reminds me of that childhood experience but in an odd, twisted way. And this is the thickest children’s book I’ve read so far. And like any children’s book, it is filled with suspense and adventure!
A book that contains an engaging story about Jacob Portman and the impossible but fantastic stories of his grandfather that he used to regard with wonder and amazement as a kid, then hate and disbelief as a teenager, it was only when he witnessed the tragic death of his grandfather that he would learn that they might be true after all. Then like one thing that led to another, he would meet enemies without heart and soul, with power-hungry monstrosity called the hallowgasts out there to eat him and friends with mysterious abilities that would force him to realize that he could be a peculiar, like the peculiar children in hiding in Miss Peregrine’s home.
This book also contains real vintage photographs that belong to the strange and bizarre which, according to the author, where he based his story from. Sometimes, when I’m still awake in the middle of the night and my eyes would catch a glimpse of the book’s front cover with a picture of a little girl from ancient past, it would give me the creeps so each time I would turn it over so that what I’d see was just the back cover. It was only when I’m done reading it that I was no longer afraid and have come to like the strange little girl. Her name’s Olive, by the way.