The Last Unicorn

I N T R O D U C T I O N

I LOVE THIS BOOK.

That's the only truly important thing I have to say here. Everything else I write will be secondary to that. Embellishments. Flourishes. Variations on that theme.

So. If you're standing in a bookshop, reading this introduction, wondering if you should buy this book and give it a try . . . the answer is yes.

If someone gave you this book as a gift, and you're looking for a new read, trying to decide if it might be worth your time, the answer is also yes.

If you read this book when you were younger, and loved it, and you're worried that it won't be as good as you remember, that it will have faded somehow: Don't worry, it hasn't.

If you're worried that perhaps it's you who have changed too much, grown weary, had your heart hardened by the world, your palate roughened by less subtle stories, let me reassure you. This story is perfect as a pearl. It is sweet as the kiss you remember most fondly in the quiet corner of your heart.

I've given this book to people I love, pushed it on strangers in bookstores, and read it aloud to my children. I keep several copies on hand so I always have one to give away. It is a book I recommend to anyone and everyone, no matter who they are, no matter their age, their genre preferences, or whether or not they're interested in unicorns.

And I'm recommending it to you, right now. Do yourself a favor. Please read it. Please.

—

THIS IS NOT SIMPLY A BOOK I LOVE. IT IS MY FAVORITE BOOK, AND IT HAS BEEN MY favorite book for the better part of thirty years. It is the book my heart loves best.

For those of you who haven't read this book, fear not. I'm not going to commit the biggest sin of introductions and spoil it for you by talking about all my favorite bits, or steal all the good jokes and put them here so I look clever, or give away plot points, or make references you can't understand because, well, you haven't read it yet.

But two paragraphs from here, I am going to reference a couple characters for the folks who have read the book before. So if you want to avoid even that, you can skip to the next section.

When I was younger, I read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe . And so I spent my childhood wanting nothing more than to stumble into Narnia. I was old enough to know it wasn't real, but still young enough to hope. And so I looked for hidden doors and secret ways. For years.

Now I am staring fifty in the face. Some folk will say that's not old, but it is. At the very least, it's the oldest I've ever been. I need glasses now. I don't laugh as often as I used to. Every day I feel I am becoming less Serafina and more Helia. I'm old enough to know that unicorns aren't real, but still young enough to hope I might meet one. And when I do, I hope I can rise to the occasion and be better than I am, which is to say less Queen Helia, and more Max Grue. —

I HATE INTRODUCTIONS.

Yes, I realize this is an odd place to make a statement along these lines. For this to make sense, I should probably give a little background.

Growing up, I lived out in the country. It wasn't especially rustic, and I'm not trying to imply any hardship. It's just that I didn't grow up in a suburb, surrounded by a bunch of other kids to play with or places to go. Instead, I grew up with books.

It's hard to look back in time and try to calculate exactly how much I read, but it was a lot. I remember rereading my mother's big red hardcover copy of The Lord of the Rings every summer, laying on my bed.

I remember packing up for school before getting on the long bus ride in the fifth grade. I always made sure I had two paperbacks in my backpack. They weren't the book I was reading—THAT book was always in my hand or my coat pocket. The books in my backpack were for when I finished that one. That way, I always had a backup . . . and then a spare after that. I might forget to take my lunch to school, but I never forgot to take books. . . .