i was gratified to realize that i’d read a majority of these. some brought back fond memories: i read scary stories all at once, walking back and forth in front of my house, and then couldn’t sleep for nights afterwards. in middle skool i played with earth’s children, even though my history teacher wanted a note signed by a parents before she released them to me. (like hell: i just found myself a bookstore.)(then of course i couldn’t read them in public without the uneasy sense that someone could tell that i was reading prehistoric porn.) bridge to terabithia made me weep; a light in the attic made me laugh, toni morrisson made me think … what kind of adolescence could kids possibly have if you took catcher in the rye or forever away from them? growing up purely on disney movies is potentially far more destructive than any influence of roald dahl.
anyway, it doesn’t affect me. i’m privileged. i’m at swarthmore. we read whatever we want here; we look down on those hick states that run Just Say No to huck finn campaigns. a first-year came to the co|motion info session and said she was going through remembrance of things past for the 2nd time. bully for her. what she’ll come to realize, which is even better than being in a place that will cheerfully engage you in conversation about proust, is that if she wants to progress to orson scott card, she could find any of the ender books is under 5 seconds, and no one would think less of her.