The Boy Who Lived
I love rereading books in different phases of my life. Sometimes I have a whole new perspective on the book (and am reminded how one sided my opinion can be at times). I’m a father now, and to prepare for having kids I read lots of books on how they develop so I wouldn’t screw them up. One of the most basic, primal needs of humans is love. Without it we wither. Babies deprived of it often grow into monsters.
And so on my second go around of the Harry Potter series I’m having trouble suspending disbelief from book one, and have decided to express my frustration here, in a hopefully entertaining way.
Yeah, I know what some of you are saying. “Dude, don’t take it so seriously! It’s a story about a pubescent wizard who goes to a hidden magic school. Chill!” But somewhere in the world right now there are adults in a park running around with broomsticks between their legs playing “quidditch” (and by the way, spell check didn’t flag quidditch which means it’s used often enough that the programmers had to consider it a real word) so I’m going to indulge myself here a little.
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