My parents had a very simple policy, once I could read anything going, fluently. "You don't have to finish it". So at about 7 or so, having finished the children's section of the local library, I started the home bookshelves from top left to bottom right. I enjoyed Enid Blyton and Dickens (similar levels of plot and characterisation as far as I was concerned), I loved Plato's life of Socrates and most of the Eysenck on the shelves, got about half-way through "Forever Amber", enjoyed most of Pooh but not all, and gave up on "The Cruel Sea" fairly fast. I don't remember what else was on there, but you get the idea. The things aimed at my age group were still fun, there was no stigma attached, but some (not all) of the "adult" material went down as well. "Critical" is not a word I would use about myself at the time.
Tolkein, we had read to us. My dad first met The Hobbit as a part of a course he went on to teach you to read faster, and my sister and I got it for bedtime stories (though there was a gap before we entered Mirkwood, as we were both scared of spiders).
The Lord of the Rings followed. I got banned from sitting on his lap and reading along when he discovered I was speed-reading it... he then measured both our reading speeds and discovered we were both already faster than the course was designed to take him to. By then I'd have been about 10, Helen was 7, and we were reading at about 1000 words a minute. On the whole, I don't think being let loose with anything that came to hand did me any harm, or put me off reading. It might have been easier to put me off breathing.
Incidentally, one of the nicest books I got for Xmas this year was probably aimed at 5 year olds: a lovely little tale about a teddy bear who wants to be a ballerina. I've never been taught to be ashamed of enjoying things that are "labelled" as wrong, and I probably never will.
no subject
Tolkein, we had read to us. My dad first met The Hobbit as a part of a course he went on to teach you to read faster, and my sister and I got it for bedtime stories (though there was a gap before we entered Mirkwood, as we were both scared of spiders).
The Lord of the Rings followed. I got banned from sitting on his lap and reading along when he discovered I was speed-reading it... he then measured both our reading speeds and discovered we were both already faster than the course was designed to take him to. By then I'd have been about 10, Helen was 7, and we were reading at about 1000 words a minute. On the whole, I don't think being let loose with anything that came to hand did me any harm, or put me off reading. It might have been easier to put me off breathing.
Incidentally, one of the nicest books I got for Xmas this year was probably aimed at 5 year olds: a lovely little tale about a teddy bear who wants to be a ballerina. I've never been taught to be ashamed of enjoying things that are "labelled" as wrong, and I probably never will.