Nature. Nurture. Novels. If you grew up preinternet—were talking the 70s and 80s （“the olden days”， as my daughter calls it） —books brought you up， exerting as much influence on who you were and who you became as anything， or anyone. My school friends and I， some bookish， others not， all read ourselves into being and navigated our way through the wilds of childhood and adolescence with dog-eared novels as maps. There wasnt much else to do. And you had to get your information from somewhere.

Parents—laissez-faire baby boomers（helicopter parenting hadnt been invented）—werent particularly interested and， if asked， would usually send you off in the wrong direction， to the wrong bookshelf， to something dusty—“Oh， I loved Vanity Fair at your age！” —not understanding our craving for fat books with silver-embossed covers， smelling of hormones and airports and America， page corners sticky from rereading， books that showed us dazzling new worlds—outside the suburb， beneath our skirts—and had all the best lines.

At a time when TV was rubbish， the local library was a refuge and a computer game meant Pac Man， we read ferociously， without cynicism or snobbery， inhabiting every page， dream readers—first as kids， then under the duvet with a camping torch， then as young teens—and it influenced who we were， who we became.

Its all still there： we are what we read. The current teen generation will leave behind a huge digital footprint—endless mortifying photos， videos， texts—but we left little， a few red-eyed snaps， some scratched vinyl records and a long， beloved reading list spanning Malory Towers to Sweet Valley High， Adrian Mole to Anne of Green Gables.

At a time when talking to children about emotions was seen as largely unnecessary—“Nope， lifes not fair，”distracted parents would shrug—books filled in childhoods lonelier gaps， made us feel better， a little more understood.

For sweet， brutal justice there was Roald Dahl—Veruca Salt had it coming. The sisterless had Little Women（“What would Jo do？”）. For the fantasy of hearty sibling adventure on boats while we squabbled in the landlocked shires， The Famous Five—although the best thing about Enid Blyton was that she was so prolific， it meant youd almost never run out of books. And if you were a latchkey kid， there was the happy possibility of stumbling into your very own secret garden， a patch of the rec behind the broken swing that could be yours， somewhere you could read undisturbed without being called a swot. When things got really bad—bullied at school， forced to share the dampest， smallest bedroom with your most annoying brother—well， at least you werent at Gateshead Hall with poor Jane Eyre.

When puberty hit， books could save your life， certainly save face. School sex education merged with worrying diagrams， forcing us to retreat to the warm bath of Judy Blumes novels—Are You There God？ Its Me， Margaret and Forever in particular. If Blume knew what crushes and periods and being 13 felt like， Jilly Cooper knew all about the dizzying possibilities of a riding crop and studded our dreams with Rupert Campbell-Black. In a paragraph， Jackie Collins could transport us from a grubby bunk bed to a Hollywood fourposter. While Shirley Conran， author of the unsurpassable Lace， introduced us to kick-ass career women.

Word of mouth was everything. If your best mate didnt rate it， it probably wasnt worth reading. It was always about the story and characters， never the author， who usually looked as dreary as any other grownup in the jacket photo and who， like your parents， somehow got in the way of the experience. Cult books were heatedly passed from one girl to another， dissected late into a sleepover， held above our heads as we sunbathed covered in baby-oil in parks， borrowed， “l(fā)ost”， reluctantly returned. Infinitely precious， they would tell you things that even your ballsiest big sister didnt know， that your mother didnt think you should know. So subversive， they were thrillingly never stocked in the school library. Virginia AndrewsFlowers in the Attic was one， a brilliantly implausible saga of an evil grandmother. Better still， it was part of a series， like all the best books. You could create collections. Nothing beat the sight of my sacred Andrews books—all bought with hard-earned newspaper round money—lined up on my bookshelf， in order.

We read “proper” literature too， not giving a hoot about genres or critical acclaim， only about the book. It rocked or it didnt. It was silent， or it spoke to us—still the best test I think. I read Jeanette Wintersons Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit over and over， feeling forever changed by it. The Catcher in the Rye whispered in our ear， disruptively， like our cleverest， most cynical friend during assembly， crossing decades and continents： we knew all about phonies after all. Anne Frank was a heroine： her voice leapt off the page. And who didnt want to deliver a lemony one liner like Elizabeth Bennet？ Or wander the midsummer meadows in Dodie Smiths I Capture the Castle？

Of course， books enthrall and influence us all our lives but there is a rawness to reading when young， a blissfully entitled sense that the stories we read are ours， a world grownups， least of all parents， cant enter. And still cant： when I earnestly asked my 12-year-old son， a prolific reader and fan of the kind of quasi-violent teenage fiction I dont really approve of， which books had inspired him （I was digging for R.J.Palacios Wonder or John Greens The Fault in Our Stars）， he looked away， shrugged，“Hmm， dunno really，” as if hed never picked up a Kindle in his life.

I probably would have said just the same had my mother asked me the same question. Only she didnt ask. Because it was the olden days and we were left to get on with it， roam free， read free. Lucky us.

自然。滋養(yǎng)。小說(shuō)。如果你成長(zhǎng)于互聯(lián)網(wǎng)誕生前的時(shí)代——我們說(shuō)的是70年代和80年代（“舊時(shí)代”，就像我女兒說(shuō)的那樣）——書(shū)籍伴你成長(zhǎng)，就像其他任何東西或任何人一樣，影響著你的性格，還有你的人生路。我和學(xué)校里的朋友們，有些是書(shū)癡，有些不是，都通過(guò)閱讀來(lái)造就性格，并用被翻得卷角的小說(shuō)作為地圖，指引我們安全地行駛過(guò)童年期和青少年時(shí)期的狂野時(shí)光。沒(méi)有太多別的事情可做。而你又不得不通過(guò)某種途徑來(lái)獲取信息。

父母親們——嬰兒潮時(shí)期出生的自由主義者們（“直升機(jī)父母”尚未出現(xiàn)）——對(duì)孩子們并不是特別感興趣，而且，如果被問(wèn)及的話(huà)，常常會(huì)給你指錯(cuò)方向，指錯(cuò)書(shū)架，指到某些故紙堆里去——“噢，我在你這個(gè)年齡的時(shí)候喜歡看《名利場(chǎng)》！”——不明白我們的渴望，我們渴望那些銀色浮雕封面的大部頭作品，那些荷爾蒙、機(jī)場(chǎng)和美國(guó)的氣息，那些因反復(fù)閱讀變得黏糊的書(shū)角，那些向我們展示閃亮新世界的書(shū)籍——郊區(qū)之外，裙子之下——還有著一切最美的文字。

曾幾何時(shí)，電視節(jié)目一文不值，本地的圖書(shū)館是人們的避難所，而電腦游戲只有《吃豆人》，我們于是狠命讀書(shū)，既不憤世嫉俗也不附庸風(fēng)雅，以每一頁(yè)為寄托，成為理想的讀者——首先是孩提時(shí)代，然后是打著野營(yíng)手電筒藏在羽絨被下的日子，后來(lái)成了青少年——它影響了我們的性格，還有我們的人生路。

那些影響依然存在：我們成為怎樣的人取決于我們讀了什么書(shū)。如今的青少年一代將會(huì)留下巨大的數(shù)字印記——無(wú)數(shù)的惡搞照片、視頻、段子——但我們那一代幾乎沒(méi)有這些，只留下很少的紅眼照片、一些刮痕亂七八糟的黑膠唱片，還有一張長(zhǎng)長(zhǎng)的摯愛(ài)書(shū)單，包括了《瑪洛麗塔女中》、《甜蜜谷》、《少年阿莫的秘密日記》、《綠山墻的安妮》。

曾幾何時(shí)，與孩子們談?wù)撉楦斜灰曌骱翢o(wú)必要——“不，生活就是不公平的，”心不在焉的父母親們會(huì)聳聳肩說(shuō)道——是書(shū)籍填滿(mǎn)了童年孤獨(dú)的空隙，讓我們感覺(jué)好點(diǎn)，被理解多一點(diǎn)。

想要看美好而無(wú)情的正義，有羅爾德·達(dá)爾的小說(shuō)，里面的人物維露卡·索爾特就遭遇到了。沒(méi)有姐妹的孩子可以看《小婦人》（“喬會(huì)怎么做呢？”）。對(duì)于喜愛(ài)幻想兄弟姐妹一起乘船大冒險(xiǎn)卻又整天在內(nèi)陸城鎮(zhèn)吵得不可開(kāi)交的我們來(lái)說(shuō)，有《五伙伴歷險(xiǎn)記》——盡管伊妮德·布萊頓最棒的一點(diǎn)是她特別高產(chǎn)，這就意味著你幾乎從來(lái)不會(huì)沒(méi)書(shū)可讀。而如果你是個(gè)“鑰匙兒童”的話(huà)，你也許能開(kāi)心地蹣跚步入你自己的秘密花園，破舊秋千后的一小塊場(chǎng)地可以是你的地盤(pán)，在那里你可以不被打擾地盡情閱讀而不會(huì)被人叫做書(shū)呆子。當(dāng)情況糟糕透頂時(shí)——在學(xué)校被欺負(fù)，在家被迫與你最煩人的兄弟共住最潮濕最狹小的臥室——嗯，至少你不是和可憐的簡(jiǎn)·愛(ài)一起住在蓋茨黑德府。

當(dāng)青春期來(lái)襲時(shí)，書(shū)籍可以拯救你的人生，當(dāng)然也可以挽救你的顏面。學(xué)校里的性教育融入了各種令人擔(dān)心的示意圖，強(qiáng)迫我們撤退到朱迪·布魯姆的小說(shuō)的溫暖沐浴中去——特別是《上帝，你在那里嗎？是我，瑪格麗特》和《永遠(yuǎn)》。如果說(shuō)布魯姆明白迷戀上別人、來(lái)例假和13歲時(shí)的心理狀態(tài)，那么吉莉·庫(kù)珀就懂得一切關(guān)于馬鞭的令人頭昏眼花的可能性，且靠魯伯特·坎貝爾·布萊克裝點(diǎn)了我們的夢(mèng)想。在某段文章里，杰基·科林斯會(huì)將我們從邋遢的雙層床里送往好萊塢的四帷柱大床上去。而雪莉·康蘭，無(wú)可超越的小說(shuō)《蕾絲》的作者，則給我們介紹了了不起的職業(yè)女性們。

口碑決定一切。如果你最要好的哥們對(duì)其不置可否，那它有可能就不值得一讀。重要的永遠(yuǎn)是故事和人物，而非作者，封面照上的人通?？瓷先ズ推渌赡耆艘粯涌菰餆o(wú)味，就像你的父母親，不知怎的總是妨礙我們閱讀。邪典書(shū)籍在女孩們之間被熱切地傳遞，我們討論書(shū)籍內(nèi)容至深夜，最后干脆留下來(lái)過(guò)夜，涂滿(mǎn)嬰兒油在公園里邊曬日光浴邊舉高書(shū)閱讀。書(shū)被借走，“丟失”，不情愿地歸還。極其寶貴的是，它們將會(huì)告訴你那些即便是你那膽大包天的姐姐都不知道的事情，而你母親則認(rèn)為你壓根不應(yīng)該知道。如此具有顛覆性，它們是絕對(duì)不會(huì)被收藏在學(xué)校的圖書(shū)館里的。維吉尼亞·安德魯斯的《閣樓之花》就是其中之一，這是一部極其令人難以置信的長(zhǎng)篇小說(shuō)，講述了一個(gè)邪惡的外婆的故事。更棒的是，它只是一個(gè)系列中的一本而已，就像所有那些最好的書(shū)一樣。你可以收集一整套。沒(méi)有什么能夠戰(zhàn)勝我那套神圣的安德魯斯合集——全都是用辛辛苦苦送報(bào)紙掙來(lái)的錢(qián)買(mǎi)的——在我的書(shū)架上按順序排得整整齊齊。

我們也閱讀“正經(jīng)”文學(xué)，從不在乎其體裁或評(píng)論的贊揚(yáng)，只在乎書(shū)籍的本身。它是不是很棒。它是沉默無(wú)聲的，還是與我們對(duì)話(huà)的——我認(rèn)為這仍然是最好的檢驗(yàn)方式。我一遍又一遍地閱讀珍妮特·溫特森的《橘子不是唯一的水果》，感覺(jué)自己被其永久改變了?！尔溙锢锏氖赝摺吩谖覀兊亩叺驼Z(yǔ)，擾亂我們的思緒，就像我們最聰明、最憤世嫉俗的朋友，在集會(huì)的時(shí)候，穿越了時(shí)光和大陸：畢竟我們完全明白什么是騙子。安妮·弗蘭克是位女英雄：她的話(huà)語(yǔ)躍然紙上。而有誰(shuí)不想像伊麗莎白·班奈特那樣拋出一句酸溜溜的小笑話(huà)呢？或是在道迪·史密斯的《我的秘密城堡》里的夏日牧場(chǎng)里漫步呢？

當(dāng)然了，書(shū)籍吸引并影響了我們的一生，但年輕時(shí)的閱讀是毫無(wú)經(jīng)驗(yàn)的，只是一種充滿(mǎn)快樂(lè)的感覺(jué)，覺(jué)得我們所閱讀的就是我們自己的，這是一個(gè)成年人，至少是所有的父母親們，無(wú)法進(jìn)入的世界。而他們?nèi)缃褚廊粺o(wú)法進(jìn)入：當(dāng)我熱切地詢(xún)問(wèn)12歲的兒子，他是一個(gè)閱讀量豐富的讀者，也是我并不太贊成的某類(lèi)準(zhǔn)暴力青少年文學(xué)的粉絲，問(wèn)他是哪些書(shū)籍給予他啟迪時(shí)（我期待的是R.J.帕拉西奧的《奇跡》或是約翰·格林的《星運(yùn)里的錯(cuò)》），他瞟向別處，聳了聳肩：“嗯，我也不知道，”就像他這輩子從未拿起過(guò)Kindle閱讀器一樣。

如果當(dāng)初我母親問(wèn)我同樣的問(wèn)題，也許我也會(huì)做出一模一樣的回答。只不過(guò)她從來(lái)沒(méi)問(wèn)過(guò)。因?yàn)槟鞘窃趶那?，我們被允許隨性生活，自由地漫步，自由地閱讀。我們真幸運(yùn)。