We sail, in this life, on a barge of the dead, further, then closer, swaying in time as we near that undiscovered country.
We walk, in this life, in a field of corn, our hands outstretched, legs dancing, drenched by sunlight but searching somehow still.
We fly, in this life, over fields like postage stamps, homes and lives we will never know, entire worlds we miss, zeitgeists for whom we will never be a part.
We muse, in this life, on so much of insignificance, even involuntarily our thoughts return to the gates of ivory.
We sing, in this life, songs of hope and woe, sending them up to gods above, gods we have long forgotten, who cling to our vestigial memories like our fear of the darkness and craving for the light.
We search, in this life, for Wally, through silents and talkies, fictitious wars, celluloid bloodsports, the manufactured reality of the film set, like promises written upon water, until at last we find him, never knowing if we can trust his unerring gaze, but sure in our hearts that we have staved off our fears... for the moment at least. ( )

Loved looking at these as a kid! Still do! ( )

What can I say? I'm a fan of the series. You can have a lot of fun trying to find Waldo checking out what is happening around in each scene... For everyone that love puzzles... ( )

Such a tricky fellow. ( )

Like all the Waldo books: a work of squinty, diversionary, haphazard genius. The absurdities of Tinseltown are easy pickings for Handford's eagle-eyed wit. ( )