For reasons that may be summarized as me being a petty jackass, I have decided to reduce the level of beauty and joy in the world yet again. This time I’ll be hopping in the continua buggy and … oh, let’s just say persuading Roald Dahl to restrict his writing to intelligence reports. So once I’m done there’ll be no more Matilda, no Charlie & the Chocolate Factor, no James & the Giant Peach; no more Sometime Never or My Uncle Oswald. Even the short stories will be gone. By this time next Tuesday, none of you will ever remember loving anything he wrote.
With one exception, that is. I’ll be arranging for one–JUST one–of his tales–to survive. Y’all get to choose. You can pick any single novel, or any collection of short stories published before his death. What will you choose, and why?