I still remember the first time I visited the little library in my small home town. At six years old, I felt that it was a vast treasure-filled cave, and as I sat in the carpeted children’s corner with the rest of my class, I spent much of my time simply gazing around, slack-jawed and starry eyed.
There was no grandeur as such, the building being a modern, average ceilinged, purpose built affair. But it had several rows, filled with all kinds of books, which I noted when wandering around were labelled things like ‘historical fiction’ and ‘cookery’ and ‘art’…almost immediately the idea of growing up and being able to understand the contents of these sacred shelves, especially those bearing fictional works, became cemented as a primary goal of my existence. Continue reading