Welcome aboard the Hogwart’s Express

Will I ask those who’ve not read it yet to go and read it? Will I ask those who’ve read it numerous times to go and re-read it?


I wouldn’t do either. This series of post will be, selfishly, all about me. A human being who has always found the charms of these enchanting books irresistible and the weight of wisdom it carries unbearable yet profound. Every time I am finished with a book, I go into my room and try to decide what to read next and I always find my gaze settle on the perfectly bound and thrillingly beautiful – Harry Potter. And it’s needless to say that most of the time, I give in to the craving and today is such a day. I just finished ( or did I? ) with a book of which I specifically asked the author for a review copy since, by the description, it sounded interesting. But I couldn’t make it through. I was utterly bored. I shut it and head straight to my bookshelf to get myself a read which can fill the horrible feeling I was left with – a feeling of there being not enough good books with which to satisfy myself, a fear that there will never be written another great book. And then I saw my section of ‘Classics’ which hold every masterpiece ever written (okay, maybe not EVERY but…you get the idea!) and there it sat, gloriously among the others. And I picked out the eighth part – Harry Potter and The Cursed Child – which stirred some pretty big questions about myself, questions that need answering. It’s not about just Harry or his son or the fate of the world, it’s about the human, the glorious that a man is. I will talk about it more in detail in one of the posts to follow but I just want to confess what immense power of influence the Harry Potter world holds over us. My heart defies reason and logic when I read it and what’s more? My mind is ever ready to surrender itself to its magnificence. So, in this section specifically devoted to harry Potter – it’s universe, it’s impact and it’s immortality – I will be talking about……well…..all things magical and pure and true.

These are not children’s books, are they? They are, aren’t they? But then, what are we but children trapped in a grown-up’s body?


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