On Roald Dahl, Rollercoasters, Cassette Tapes, and the Infinite Universe

Occasionally, as a parent, you get such a clear insight into the cyclical nature of life that it takes you out of yourself for a moment.

As a kid, I loved Roald Dahl. And, when I say “loved,” I mean loved. By the time I was six, I’d read every children’s book he’d ever written (my favorite, then as now, was Matilda), plus his two half-for-children, half-for-adults autobiographies, Boy and Going Solo. When Dahl died in November 1990, my parents took me out for pizza to break the news. I cried. I’d assumed — fairly reasonably — that, like sunrises, Roald Dahl books would just keep coming, such that I’d get one on each birthday until I was no longer interested.

About the Author

Charles C. W. Cooke

Charles C. W. Cooke is a senior editor at National Review and the host of The Charles C. W. Cooke Podcast.

Featured Tags

Manage following

Literature

Occasionally, as a parent, you get such a clear insight into the cyclical nature of life that it takes you out of yourself for a moment.

As a kid, I loved Roald Dahl. And, when I say “loved,” I mean loved. By the time I was six, I’d read every children’s book he’d ever written (my favorite, then as now, was Matilda), plus his two half-for-children, half-for-adults autobiographies, Boy and Going Solo. When Dahl died in November 1990, my parents took me out for pizza to break the news. I cried. I’d assumed — fairly reasonably — that, like sunrises, Roald Dahl books would just keep coming, such that I’d get one on each birthday until I was no longer interested.