'I read Harry Potter secretly on trains, half embarrassed, half ashamed. I loved it'

Published on Sunday 29 July 2007 00:18

IT'S been a momentous week.

An era-defining week. A week that brought to an end one of the most culturally significant phenomena of the age. Last Friday, I was standing outside Europe's largest bookshop, Waterstone's in Piccadilly. I was dressed as a wizard (naturally) and was interviewing the queuing public as they snaked around the building. Dull Belgians, whacky Dutch folk and an American family of four who had travelled all the way from Arizona, having dyed their hair blond and dressed head-to-toe in black crepe velvet.

They were all there for one thing and one thing alone - the seventh and final instalment of Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows. There has been talk of little else in the literary world in the past few weeks in painful expectation of JK's concluding opus.

And I found myself with the book in my hand first thing last Saturday morning, with seven days to tear through its 700 or so pages before I had to chair a discussion about it. Every night, I took it to bed with me like some clandestine lover, promising myself just one more chapter of its delights before sleep. I dreamt about it, waking the next morning with the sole thought of greedily reading it at breakfast. I read it secretly on trains, half embarrassed, half ashamed. Kids would eye my hardback lasciviously. I would smile knowingly to myself and return to the printed pages. I loved it. I absolute loved it.

I know a few of you will have dropped the paper in disgust and will, as we speak, be removing me as your friend on Facebook. My friends in academia will be cursing me, and my agent may well be calling to drop me. So be it. I wish to stem the mealy-mouthed tide of naysayers who seem to think the global popularity of the Potter franchise seems somehow to detract from the quality of the story-telling, the scope and range of the writing.

JK Rowling is an amazing woman; she's utterly incredible. And the Harry Potter series is a history-making literary event that will one day be accorded the same significance as the works of Stevenson and Dickens. Let us not forget the extent of JK's achievements. Not only has she created a seven-volume story that has transfixed every generation across every nation in almost every language, she has managed to do so at a time when there was genuine concern about the death of the book as we know it. Furthermore, Harry Potter has been credited with almost single-handedly re-engaging young male readers. When was the last time that the publication of a book caused such a media storm? Archer? No. Cooper? No. Not even Jordan could remain abreast of such sales.

And now it has come to an end, a conclusion. Nothing lasts forever. As I read the book, I resolutely did not turn to the back to seek a premature climax. I waited and allowed myself the pleasure of turning each page consecutively in the correct numerical order.

But I would like to say goodbye to Harry. I used to be called Harry as a kid. I also had glasses. And although I didn't have a scar, per se, a bottle-green turban in 1980s Glasgow marked you out in pretty much the same fashion. Maybe there's a bit of Harry in us all.