The frequent trips to various national libraries ever since I could read were always one of the highlights of the week. Even when I was done with my allocated eight books, I would rearrange them according to their size, height, or whether I liked them or not. Such a close relationship with books was probably inherited, as my house was crammed with yellowed, musty books that spanned from Christian Self-Help volumes (Mother) to Histories of Everything (and Father). Of course, as a kid I shunned the old “diseased” looking books and hankered for brand new copies of Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl, and Sweet Valley. Only recently have I begun browsing through the library at home, discovering quite a number of classics that are imbued with memories- the book my father received as a reward for coming 2nd in standard for Literature, my stacks of children’s books, and most importantly, my collection of Roald Dahl stories. Growing up, I was rather familiar with his children’s stories like Danny, the Champion of the World, The BFG, and Mathilda, which made the discovery of his adult fiction even more pleasurable as Dahl’s stories take on a much darker undertone in The Wonderful Stories of Henry Sugar and Skin. Doing Lit in uni made me read authors I would have never picked on my own, like Steven Wallace and Virginia Woolf (grew to like Mrs. Dalloway but Flush and The Years are my favourites); or works I would not normally see like Coriolanus.
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