I have a problem with magic. Even as a small child with a big imagination, I found magic very hard to swallow. If a character in a story teleported using a technological aid, that was fine. If a character vanished in a magical puff of smoke after an incantation, I was having none of it.
I became aware of the Harry Potter book series quite early for a childless adult. A friend worked in a central London bookshop and was tiring of parents descending in their lunch hours enquiring ‘do you have any of these books by Harry Potter?’ Intrigued, I read the first two – the only two at the time – to see what all the growing fuss was about.
I liked them well enough, despite all the potions and spells, but particularly as the millennium turned and that fuss snowballed into a global mega fuss, I couldn’t help thinking it was somewhat out of proportion. It’s very hard for a writer to establish whether not quite seeing the big success of another writer (particularly if they’re about your age) is just Chateau de Sour Grapes.
Because I had peeves. The characterisation of the Dursleys made me wince – the progressive’s snooty cliche of social climbers. The use of dialect for Hagrid’s dialogue, slowing you down as ye troy’d t’ figgur owt whart he wus act’ly sayin’. The tweeness of some of the magical names for things – Hufflepuff, muggle – really got up my nose. Of course, I didn’t fume or try to cancel the author or even stop reading, because I’m not a loony.
But. The plots were immaculate, with so many forehead slapping of course twists. The detail of the imaginary world was so complete and thought through. And the emotional intelligence was gripping – the sense of righteous indignation at an unfairness that one often feels as a child was never better captured.
Still, I couldn’t figure out quite why it was so incredibly popular.
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