Yes, Harold and the Purple Crayon. It may be beloved to some, but it has freaked me out since I was very young. To this day when I read it I am filled with existential dread.
Harold is the only “real” person in a world of nothingness. Everything around him is an endless white void, and nothing exists unless he creates it with his purple crayon. Even then things can go wrong, as when he gets scared and his hand shakes and next thing you know, he’s about to drown in the ocean he has created.
He is alone, with no one to save him. Sure, he is resourceful and creative and he saves himself, but still, he is alone.
At the end, he’s “home,” but what kind of home is it when you have to create it yourself? Even as a little kid I knew that wasn’t really his home, it was just a drawing. And I kept wondering, where are his parents?
I love to be alone. But Harold, who is always alone, sealed away in his white universe, makes me sad.