Find Waldo Now

Kids love to look for Waldo. Of course, you can't look at this book very often or they remember where he is. Still, they like to look at the elaborate, often humorous, illustrations as much as they like finding Waldo.

Loved looking at these as a kid! Still do!

I love these goofy Waldo books. I can search them, entranced, for hours.

In the years that followed, we often spoke of our experiences with Wally in hushed tones. Of the ladies on the grand staircase in gay Paree. The boiling oil pouring from the turrets during the Crusades. The question of our hero's loitering "fans", the imitators, expecting us to find them even while

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we were searching for someone superior.

The experiences followed us wherever we went. Those quiet moments in the cinema, absorbing an adult world through our childish eyes. The laughter behind the school buildings. They were echoed in the trees of the woods just outside town limits and reflected in the water of the swimming pool from three metres up on the diving board.

We had been drawn in initially by our fascination with the subject matter: Ancient Egypt, the Vikings, 18th century piratical ways. We had remained because we weren't just searching for Wally. Yes, there were his traveller's accoutrements and, in later editions, his queer group of pals (we pre-"special edition" children would soon have many an axe to grind).

But in our travels through Old Japan and the Gold Rush, the quest took on a vigour beyond that of youths with their puzzles. We were sharing an experience, haunted by questions we might never answer, figures who might remain forever shrouded in mist. Like the wealthy figures in Gay Paree looking on baffled at a scruffy hobo drinking good wine in their midst, we analysed the world through the prism of our culture and our youth. Much that others knew was still unknowable to us.

Of course, some claimed they had found everything. These toffee-nosed few announced their triumphs on the monkey bars although few brought with them spreadsheets to prove their claims. The Gold Rush picture felt especially fitting. We were all rushing headlong towards a site of untold riches, if only we could uncover them, but aware that a desperate fate awaited those who sought but did not find. Many came away with only a fraction of the promised booty, and made do with a life half in shadow. Others found the central prize but failed to take note of the joys that lay in searching beyond that. Some suffered the inverse fate: they found all the fans, all the kit, but never Wally himself. Like the child on Christmas morning spoiled with luxury but denied the much-wished-for pony, they carried on aware that they would appear to those around them as life's winners, but would be dogged forever by an impermeable sense of loss.

A few did find everything, it's true. But by the time that work was done, weeks had passed. Months. They returned to the schoolyard, haggard and drawn, weeping when they meant to laugh because the former had become grim habit. They shared their victories with us and we congratulated them but our voices were soft and limpid, our eyes had no sparkle. We had found other loves in the meantime, and only now did we realise this poor soul had been left behind, on a carnival ride destined for the wrecker's yard.

Many years later, there would be Special Editions and the unforgivable replacement of the Crusades page with a generic Medieval scene. Video games were designed, a television series came and went. New generations had our experiences, and we had to remind ourselves they were no more ours than anyone else's. For we had heard the chimes at midnight.

All along, we now knew, we had not really been searching for Wally.

We had been searching for ourselves.

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