The first fantasy novel I ever read on my own was Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone. It was like I fell in love with the book. All the characters, the plots, the binding of the book, the pages, the spells, the magic and the environment became so close to my heart that when I had finished reading the last page of the book, it was with remorse. I wished that I hadn’t read the book more slowly. I immediately begged my father to rush to the bookstore and get me the second book, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, which I finished reading as fast as I had finished reading the first book. And so it went on, until I had finished reading the seventh and last book.
I wouldn’t say that Harry Potter has contributed with anything ”meaningful” to my life, except hours of joyful and exciting reading. Yet, saying that seems quite harsh. Because, this may sound cheesy, Harry Potter plays a huge role in my life (the books, not the character). For example: The joyful excitement I used to feel when I bought the next Harry Potter book or when I bought the movie-ticket to the next film.
Yes, these books have played an important part in my life. I don’t think my life would be any different without them, yet I still thrive over their existence.