posted on 22 Mar 2018

Bookworm: A Memoir of Childhood Reading by Lucy Mangan

I've always enjoyed reading this author’s witty pieces in The Guardian and elsewhere but really became a fan when I discovered that she was an avid children’s book collector, and so part of my tribe. I pored over her earlier book,  Inside Charlie’s Chocolate Factory, some years ago and there discovered her deeply held passion for books and her determination to explain this to the world.

So when I saw her latest book waiting for me in Waterstone’s bookshop in Cheltenham last Saturday,  I knew that I would be in for another treat.  Even the packaging is just up my street with the silhouetted reading girl and the gentle dark grey of the tree and its branches embossed with shiny bronze – it looked like a box of expensive chocolates.

The deliciously designed cover is appropriate because within the first few pages we learn that Lucy was a child who practically devoured books from a very early age. I loved the way that she remembered how her dad had introduced her to so many of her enduring favourites and spent time patiently reading them with her over and over again. She felt that he was making such an effort to communicate with her through the books that they shared together and, as an example, treasured the memory as she looked at a copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar with her own young son:

‘I tucked my son in beside me on the sofa and we cocooned ourselves, the ghost of my toddler self and the spirit of my thirty something dad in shared delight.’

Rather like Lucy, I was a quiet and introverted child who wasn’t terribly keen on playing rumbustious physical games either at home or at school. However, she comes across as a child who avoided all of this because of her deep obsession with reading as many books as possible throughout her childhood.  Her parents and younger sister seemed to tolerate this behaviour although there were a few family rules like her being required to read them in a shared social space instead of hiding upstairs in her bedroom. In this way I suppose she avoided growing to be a recluse, although at several points in her story she suggests that she would have been very happy to do this because her many books were her preferred dearly loved friends.

The fascinating memoir is divided up into themes which broadly cover her developing reading preferences as she moves from the remembered joys of In the Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak via sections she gives titles such as The Blyton Interregnum, School Stories, Dystopia and a range of others right through to Young Adult Novels.

There are hundreds of worthy academic books about children’s literature that often succeed in killing the subject dead.  I am therefore full of admiration for the way in which she has written in such fond detail and with such enthusiasm about her many favourites and yet also manages to give lots of interesting information about particular authors and illustrators along the way.

We all have our personal likes and dislikes, I can’t abide The Mr Men series of books and for some reason I really loathe Spot the Dog, which few seem to understand. This is another reason for me to enjoy this book because she also unapologetically expresses her many preferences and prejudices. Like me, she is a big fan of anything illustrated by the wonderful Shirley Hughes which she explains ‘contain something elemental – an intimation of what we all mean by ‘home.’ Perfectly expressed,  in my view.  On the other hand, she despises one of my dearly loved book characters, Babar the Elephant, as being ‘lumberingly dull’!  I share her love of The Borrowers, The Secret Garden, the Just William series  and anything written by E.Nesbit  but I don’t  feel quite the same about her negative view of Tolkien as she explains that  ‘The mere thought of that maniacally detailed world exhausts me’.

Although she is quite a bit younger than me I warmed to her very happy memories of the iconic Ladybird series, The Family from One End Street, Little Women and What Katy Did, plus far too many more to mention. Her beautifully expressed memories of visiting her local library also made me smile with nostalgic recognition.

I really can’t do justice to the impressive scope of what Lucy Mangan covers in such a short review as this. As well as reminding me of many of my own reading landmarks, she has persuaded me to read some unfamiliar books as well. For instance I have never actually read any of the Milly Molly Mandy stories, which would probably make her gasp with horror, but I’m going to give them a try very soon because her writing about them is so persuasive. 

This was a lovely book that made me exclaim and nod with agreement throughout and made me laugh out loud a lot. I also had to read several extracts aloud to my husband who was trying to read something much less thrilling at the time. All I can say is that it is a feast for anyone who loved or still loves reading children’s books as well as being packed full with funny and tender memories about her family and her hopes for her young son’s future love of books .  Most importantly, it is a defiant call for the Bookworms of the world to stand up and be proud:

‘ Be glad of all the benefits it will bring, rather than lamenting the fresh air avoided, the friendships not made, the parties not attended, the exercise not taken, the body of rewarding and potentially lucrative activities, hobbies and skills not developed. Leave us be. We’re fine. More than fine. Reading’s our thing’.

Karen Argent

March 2018