It started with a book. As these things always do. A book given to me by my mother who had heard "brilliant things about it". Though my mother had this peculiar gift to always find the books I didn't even know I was looking for, I was sceptical at first. Because the book in question was about a boy. And even worse, it was about a boy named something as ordinary as Harry. It took me ages to pick up the book, because in my 10-year old mind, I couldn't believe that anything remotely interesting could ever happen to a boy named Harry. Luckily, I was wrong.
Today I have forgotten what I thought, when I first read the book. I have forgotten what I first imagined chocolate frogs to be like, what I thought of Mr. Ollivander or what my favourite store in Diagon Alley was. The details are blurry, but I know this: my world was suddenly divided between a time before Harry Potter and a time after. Something shifted inside me, when I read that book I was so reluctant to pick up at first. I read it in one sitting, staying up past my bedtime, turning the pages. And it worked its magic on me.
It's not that I hadn't immersed myself in books before. I was an avid reader, even at the age of 10, and I was slowly reading my way through the entire children's section at my local library. I had cried, gasped, laughed and fallen in love with books before. I had already met characters on paper pages, that I considered as real as the world around me. But still, I had never experienced something like this. The Harry Potter books were different.
Suddenly I ached for a world I could never reach. It felt like Rowling had offered me a glimpse through a keyhole; a glimpse of a world so similar to mine, but filled with magic, wonders, adventures, lasting friendships and such joy. I read Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone just one week before my 11th birthday and I still remember how eagerly I anticipated my birthday and hoped and wished for the Hogwarts letter of my dreams. I was so sure that Rowling's world was real. That I would receive a letter that would send me off to Hogwarts where Harry, Ron and Hermione would be waiting with open arms; already knowing me, the same way I knew them so intimately and intensely. But of course, the letter never came.
Instead, I received the next book in the series for my birthday. And in that way, the adventure continued. Even without a Hogwarts letter.
For some reason, I remember reading the second book much more vividly than the first. I remember staying up 'till past midnight; reading silently beneath my duvet after my parents had turned out the light and falling asleep midway to foul nightmares about giant snakes and dark curses. I thought the second book was so incredibly scary. And yet I devoured it anyway. Nightmares seemed like a small price to pay for sharing in on such a great adventure.
And then came the wait. I had to wait a few weeks for the next book in the series, rereading the first two books constantly in order to pass the time. The wait seemed endless back then; and I still remember how my mom surprised me with the third book on a day where we had to drive to France for our summer vacation. Needless to say, I had finished the book before the carride was over.
Things were so different back then. I was young and it would never have occurred to me, to find out when the next book was published. Instead, I relied entirely on my mother, who as a proper grown-up would "know those things". Publication dates and releases seemed like a weird and mystical thing back in those pre-internet days. So I just waited. Waited for the next piece of magic to appear and whisk me away to Hogwarts.
But then everything changed. The first movie came out, and suddenly Harry Potter was a world-wide phenomenon. Something everyone talked about. Chocolate frogs were sold in Danish supermarkets, and the book series adorned every bookseller's window. While the publication of the third book had been a surprise to me, the release date of the fourth book was marked in my calendar, and I attended the midnight release for it. I remember actually queuing up in front of the book store in the middle of the night, gazing longingly through the window at stacks and piles of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Parents, children and teenagers alike stood in that queue and exchanged theories and hopes for what would happen next. And I never realized how rare and extraordinary it was; that something as simple as a book release could get people out of their beds in order to line up in front of a bookstore. It was never seen before, and it have never been seen since. I'm so grateful for having been a part of it.
Fast forward a decade or two, and here I am, sitting in my armchair, looking at the books that started it all. I'm now in the middle of my twenties and I'm still obsessed with Harry Potter, still rereading the books, still looking out for a Hogwarts-letter that will never come. The books still seem like gateways to another world; allowing me, and everyone else, to catch a glimpse of just how far our imagination can take us. If we wish it.
Ingen kommentarer:
Send en kommentar