- Perhaps I imagined it, but I always felt an aftershock to that question, the secret nudge of the real question underneath: they were really asking me what we as Harry Potter fans planned on doing after Harry Potter. Whether we had anything in our lives besides a children’s book series—how we planned to gather up the fragments of our lives—whether we had even existed before there were Harry Potter books to read. I was tempted to tell them that I hadn’t. That before I read Harry Potter I was composed of magic dust and fairy breath, and reading the first book had been what brought all my particles together. That Harry Potter was my personal Big Bang.
- I ran a hand across the cover in the cheesy way people do when they look at albums in Hallmark commercials, then scurried back to sit against the wall, and opened the book for a second time. Mr. And Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. I sighed aloud, as if I’d sunk into a down comforter. The ho-hum tone of the opening sentence was a complete lie, and it felt great to know it. There were giants and dragons and spells and witches and battles and friendships and magic to come, and it was all funny and warm and loving and powerful, and I hadn’t realized how much I missed it.
- ...she wasn’t reading Deathly Hallows at all. Her book wasn’t orange but rose and water and sand, and featured a kid on a broomstick and a white unicorn. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. She didn’t notice me staring at her. Oh, I envy you, I thought, but I was smiling for her. She had just begun.
jun 7 2011 ∞
jun 7 2011 +
jun 7 2011 +