My bookshelves are full of children’s literature. They teach me more than the philosophers – and inspire joy
From Matt Haig to Roald Dahl, feel affinity, infinity, the finitude of death. I feel life. You see, kids’ books don’t just evoke the child in you – they can awaken the adult that lays dormant like a sleeping giant, writes Kiran Sidhu
The background bookshelves of people being interviewed on TV are filled with things of great importance: To Kill A Mockingbird, Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind, and 1984. Politicians invariably have books on political giants (I have yet to spot a Jackie Collins novel). It’s a clear statement: I am what I read.
As soon as lockdown was introduced, we raved about all the books we now had time to read, showing off images of our bookshelves on Twitter and revelling in one-upmanship. But don’t be fooled. I studied philosophy, and my bookshelves consist of Bertrand Russell’s A History of Western Philosophy, Plato’s Republic and Jean-Paul Sartre’s Existentialism and Humanism. I had an idea of reading and re-reading these books – instead, I picked-up James and The Giant Peach.
I feel no shame in choosing to take Roald Dahl’s Charlie And The Chocolate Factory to bed with me. Or finding joy in opening the flaps in The Jolly Postman. There’s a truth in children’s literature, the same kind of truth I get from reading hefty philosophy books – only the children’s books are far more joyful.
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