The Last Unicornby Peter S. BeagleA shimmering tapestry of poetry in motion, Beagle’s The Last

The Last Unicorn
by Peter S. Beagle

A shimmering tapestry of poetry in motion, Beagle’s The Last Unicorn belongs on the ephemeral shelf of adult self-help disguised as children’s fables. Wedged between Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist and Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince, it harkens back to a spring of eternal youth, to the childhood nightmares that revisit you as an adult, to a nostalgic longing for a time that may not have ever existed.

While beautiful and touching, the 1982 animated film adaptation serves only a sliver of the painfully gorgeous landscape of the book. Beagle expertly paints with adjectives and metaphor. His careful strokes bring a masterpiece to life before your eyes like a painter who suddenly turns a slew of incongruent colors into Starry Night.

At one point in the story, a butterfly lights on the namesake of the book during her quest. He pontificates enthusiastically in riddles and song, seemingly saying nothing, while truly revealing everything. When no one can recognize the unicorn, the butterfly sees her for what she is, but then in a moment, he is gone, trailing lilting strains and doubtful meditation in his wake.  Much is my experience of the tale - far too profound to appreciate within its pages, and too fleeting to describe after the fact - like childhood, like lost love, like joy. Like a beautiful white mare who once, I could have sworn, was a unicorn.