It is usual to speak in a playfully apologetic tone about one’s adult enjoyment of what are called “children’s books”. I think the convention a silly one. No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally (and often far more) worth reading at the age of fifty – except, of course, books of information. The only imaginative works we out to grow out of are those which it would have been better not to have read at all. A mature palate will probably not much be for crème de menthe: but it ought still to enjoy bread and butter and honey.
• From The Collected Letters of C.S. Lewis
• Compiled in Yours, Jack
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