explain to her teacher) that books are in some ways far more real than real life itself. They can certainly bring as much pleasure. (The American humourist, Logan Pearsall Smith, is famous for once declaring, âPeople say Life is the thing, but I much prefer reading.â)
I learned to read when I was very young indeed. When I was three, my mother had triplet babies and, to make things a little easier, I was sent straight to the next door infant school. Nobody explained that I was really only there to be babysat, and didnât need to try to keep up with the rest. So by the age of four I was a very good reader. Then, when the primary school insisted I wouldnât be old enough to join them for another year, my lovely infant school headteacher gave me the run of the glass-fronted bookshelf in her office, I still remember tapping nervously on the door, being beckoned inside, and sitting quietly on her carpet choosing my next few books, then trying to stop the glass doors juddering horribly along their wooden runnels when it was time to slide them closed again.
A whole school year, at seven, with nothing to do but sit and read. Some people would have hated it. I was in seventh heaven. Iâve always preferred reading. When I was young, my mother was forever trying to shoo me out of the house. âItâs such a nice day. Why donât you go outside?â
I always tried to wriggle out of it, preferring to stay inside and read about someone else in a story who had done just that.
And find out what happened to them . . .
Anne Fine
I learned to read when I was very young indeed. When I was three, my mother had triplet babies and, to make things a little easier, I was sent straight to the next door infant school. Nobody explained that I was really only there to be babysat, and didnât need to try to keep up with the rest. So by the age of four I was a very good reader. Then, when the primary school insisted I wouldnât be old enough to join them for another year, my lovely infant school headteacher gave me the run of the glass-fronted bookshelf in her office, I still remember tapping nervously on the door, being beckoned inside, and sitting quietly on her carpet choosing my next few books, then trying to stop the glass doors juddering horribly along their wooden runnels when it was time to slide them closed again.
A whole school year, at seven, with nothing to do but sit and read. Some people would have hated it. I was in seventh heaven. Iâve always preferred reading. When I was young, my mother was forever trying to shoo me out of the house. âItâs such a nice day. Why donât you go outside?â
I always tried to wriggle out of it, preferring to stay inside and read about someone else in a story who had done just that.
And find out what happened to them . . .
Anne Fine
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