The book that changed me as a teenager Donald Barthelme's Sixty Stories, because he was having such a good time and seemed so so smart, but was also mischievous and irreverent. It may sound corny but these stories made me grasp the existence of a world of art and literature. And Barthelme lived in Houston, where I was growing up, yet he was a major world writer.
My earliest reading memory Sitting on the sofa with my mum reading Mabel the Whale by Patricia King, with beautiful colour illustrations by Katherine Evans. I think it was pre-school. My mother was not always a patient teacher, and I was often a slow learner, but the scene, the tableaux, in memory, has the serenity of an icon. My favourite book growing up Rosemary Sutcliff's The Eagle of the Ninth.
My earliest reading memory I was six, and in the lounge in my first home in Manchester. I was sitting cross-legged on the grey carpet, in 1977, when I finished reading whichever of Enid Blyton's brilliant Secret Seven mysteries contains the mind-blowing (genuinely, for a six-year-old) twist that Emma Lane turns out to be a road and not a person.
The moment my oldest child was born, I reached for an anthology of Romantic poetry that I have owned for decades and began reading. "Sweet joy befall thee," I said to my baby, through tears, bestowing a blessing with the words of William Blake. The benediction was unplanned. I had brought the book to the hospital for myself, along with a memoir by Shirley Jackson and a pile of well-worn novels,
