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There is that special magic in the books you loved as a kid. The wide-eyed innocence and all that stuff does give even the least subtle stories that unforgettable magical sheen.

I was probably around eleven or so, still in the warm fuzzies of childhood, still far away from snarky and exasperated teenage know-it-all cynicism when I came across this slender little book in the depths of out school library. It was in English - the language that I was just learning at that time, and looked more accessible than my prior attempt at an English language story (Sister Carrie, if you’re curious, a terrible book choice for a barely English speaking preteen).

I inhaled this story over the course of a single afternoon, even with never-ending dictionary searches. It was wonderful, beautiful, splendid in its entirely not subtle “pursue your dreams no matter what� message. It was dedicated “To the real Jonathan Seagull, who lives within us all�, and I was floored and preteen mind was blown.

Yes, my little impressionable heart agreed, yes - I WILL pursue my dreams and will never settle, and I will keep persevering until I reach new heights.

“Do you have any idea how many lives we must have gone through before we even got the first idea that there is more to life than eating, or fighting, or power in the Flock? A thousand lives, Jon, ten thousand! And then another hundred lives until we began to learn that there is such a thing as perfection, and another hundred again to get the idea that our purpose for living is to find that perfection and show it forth. The same rule holds for us now, of course: we choose our next world through what we learn in this one. Learn nothing, and the next world is the same as this one, all the same limitations and lead weights to overcome.�

Since then, I haven’t revisited this story, but would occasionally remember it, usually when on the beach and seeing seagulls scramble for food. Those are not Jonathan Livingston Seagull, I’d think; they probably have not yet discovered that perfect joy of striving for more than just the basics.

And then Tadiana’s review came along, and after getting through the initial shock of “wow, how is this book not five stars for everyone????!!!!� I decided to revisit it � even though I knew that there’s no way to recapture the magic of childhood. I told myself I wouldn’t, I knew I shouldn’t � but what do I usually do when I know I shouldn’t do something? Right. Obviously, I reread it.

As Terry Pratchett aptly wrote: "If you put a large switch in a cave somewhere, with a sign on it saying, 'End-of-the-World Switch. PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH' the paint wouldn't even have time to dry."

That often tends to sum up my life choices.

It’s such a short story when the illustrations are ignored. And it’s so blatantly unsubtle and cheesy and heavy-handed and in-your-face with the message. And I was annoyed and disappointed, sure.

But then I remembered what it felt like to be eleven and inspired by Seagull Jon and my inner grumpy cynicism let go a little, and some of that warmth crept back into my shriveled Grinchy heart.

Because yeah, this is the book for the preteens who need to be inspired, and childhood is where it belongs, and it’s not its fault that I chose to dredge it out now when I’m completely unsuitable for its wide-eyed magic. And so I’m meeting my young self and my now-self in the middle, settling on the 3 stars.

(view spoiler)[Also, sometimes when you fly face-first into a cliff face at crazy speeds, you may not always ascend to a higher metaphysical plane but end up as a tiny smear on that cliff face. (hide spoiler)]

But I’m still going to sneak it into the reading pile for any suitable kid. Because it’s still awesome when you are eleven.

3 grumpy stars now (but full 5 stars from my eleven-year-old self).