Love at third sight (a Harry Potter tribute)
As a species we’re impressed by the idea that loving someone the minute you clap your eyes on them is a sign of purity. Some sort of mystical superiority. This extends to art in the sense that we’re eager to declare ‘I’m your biggest fan’ or to insist that we loved an author long before the rest of the world caught on. I know I’m not immune to this, but one author I didn’t get straight away (one I scoffed at, I’m embarrassed to say) was JK Rowling.
I read Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone in my mid-20s and recall what I thought at the time: absorbing / sweet / probably won’t bother reading the next one. I was an editor for a children’s publishing house in London and it seemed fashionable in those circles to say that Rowling didn’t deserve the fever that was building amongst adults in particular. This was what we didn’t understand. Although scoffing at JK certainly wasn’t restricted to people who worked in children’s publishing, I think the scorn was heightened for us because we knew of several books that rivalled The Philosopher’s Stone but we didn’t see adults clambering over each other to get to those. And because we didn’t understand the phenomenon, we criticised it (go humans!).
It might be logical to use this as an argument for editors, such as I was, being out of touch but no one was arguing that it wasn’t a quality children’s book. And I don’t want to give you the impression that we had a special club to do this or anything. We were a strange blend of fascinated and perplexed. But we were also unforgiving of what we saw as Rowling’s ordinary (sometimes even clunky) writing style compared to other children’s authors we admired.
It’s probably also worth noting that at this time, my mid-20s, I was on the verge of starting a novel. Yep, my novel was imminent. Definitely. Just as soon as I cleared a bit of space in my diary… I honestly thought - and this is very hard to admit but while I’m on a roll - that I would be able to write books just as well, if not better, than The Philosopher’s Stone. I’m not going to revisit this point except to say that no amount of derision you could send my way over this would come close to the amount I’ve self-administered. But I know I wasn’t alone - there were lots of us who were just about to write a novel better than JK Rowling.
So, back then, Harry Potter joined the ranks of all the other things I just don’t get like weddings, football and religion. I observed Rowling’s meteoric rise amongst adult readers with bafflement.
Fast-forward to 2010. My daughter was six and in her first year of school. She learnt to read while I wasn’t looking at around four so by the time she got to school she was on chapter books. I knew I was lucky - she read for fun and had conveniently skipped the Peter and Jane phase. But as I was to discover, I hadn’t seen anything yet.
We were walking in Camberwell one day when she said, ‘Mum, I really want to read Harry Potter.’ And we just happened to be passing a bookshop at the time (funny that) so we ducked in, grabbed a copy and went next door to a cafe because she wanted to start straight away.
She didn’t look up from the book for hours. When we left the cafe and got home, she curled up on the sofa and carried on reading. She devoured it in a few days and nights. It was different to any other time I’d seen her read a book. She got it. She more than got it: this was love.
The Chamber of Secrets
, and by now I was paying attention. Here she is starting chapter one, ‘The Worst Birthday’.
Some funny details later emerged. For example, as she’d never heard the name Dudley before she thought it was pronounced Doodley, which remains a family joke. But the main thing was that over the next two years she read the entire series with unwavering passion. Rowling had turned my daughter from a very capable and enthusiastic reader into a ‘biggest fan’.
Of course I thought this was wonderful but I also had the sense that my daughter was now part of a club I didn’t have membership to.
My son was much later to read. We did the classic thing all through Prep where we’d sit side-by-side with a school reader, I’d point at each word and he’d stare at it as if it were hieroglyphics. Outside of school readers it was different - his appetite for complex narratives and great characters was huge, he just couldn’t read much himself. Off his own steam he asked me if Harry Potter could be our bedtime story.
I must admit, I sighed inwardly. I didn’t really want to re-read a book that I’d found slightly unremarkable the first time. I had a substantial children’s book collection and I wanted to read to him books I was passionate about. ‘What about The Twits instead?’ I suggested.
For once, having absolutely no sway over my children worked in my favour.
Lying in bed with my son’s head on my shoulder, his eyes fixed on the page even though he couldn’t read a single word of it, I re-read The Philosopher’s Stone slowly and carefully. I did a mean Robbie Coltrane and a passable Maggie Smith. I began to take all of my son’s cues - his giggles, his fury at the bullying in Privet Drive, the look on his face when he felt huge sympathy for Harry, the way he’d squeeze my arm when things got a little scary. I saw things I’d missed the first time and looked forward to each session because I genuinely wanted to see the story unfold. It was like I’d never read it before.
And I’ll never forget the moment I realised that I was a complete convert. Let’s turn to page 221: ‘There are all kinds of courage,’ said Dumbledore, smiling. ‘It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr Neville Longbottom.’ By the end of the line my voice had broken and I had tears streaming down my face. My son sat up next to me and said, ‘Oh, Muuuum’ and he smiled at me a little pityingly.
Finally, I got it. It was love at third sight.