The novelist, 52, talks about teenage affliction, the missing elements in stories and always loving Where the Wild Things Are
When I was a child, I lived in a town that had a Carnegie library, an imposing stone building with a spiral staircase and very idiosyncratic smell of polish and print. It had parquet flooring against which my T-bar shoes made a satisfying squelch with each footstep. I visited it once a week to take out my allotted three books.
I spent my primary-school years in south Wales. Welsh education was canted towards art and culture (I hope it still is). We were expected to sing in unison every morning; recite poetry by heart in both languages; write stories and verse; play instruments; listen to Welsh myths; and to take part in yearly Eisteddfods. We did maths and science, of course, but it was the music and stories that left a lasting impression.
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