I can’t remember the specific book which caused the epiphany: not all books are good. I grew up devouring books. All books. Any books. From my father’s James Herriot to my mother’s Mary Stewart [This Rough Magic and The Moon-Spinners being particular favourites] via Agatha Christie loaned from the library, Shakespeare and Kingsley Amis at school, EM Forster and Virginia Woolf at university, I read it all.
The epiphany of realizing that not all books were good was disappointing, almost a betrayal. A little like the realization that Mendelssohn was not English and that Fingal’s Cave was not in Scotland.
No-one warned me that bad books got published too.
‘This Rough Magic’ by Mary Stewart [UK: Hodder]
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Not all #books are good: an epiphany as a teenager http://wp.me/p5gEM4-3z via @SandraDanby