User blog comment:JoePlay/Wizarding World Giveaway/@comment-4148226-20110714211756

When I read Harry Potter for the first time it was because I had read every Roald Dahl book in my elementary school's library, and the librarian suggested that I try out The Sorcerer's Stone. I took it home and had to sneak it into my bedroom, which, at the time, was in the garage. I read through the first three or four chapters in a daze because I could not believe how much I felt like this other kid. Alone, unwanted, invisible. And to top it all off I'd woken up several times with spiders hanging low from the ceiling. The next two books were already out and I devoured them. When The Goblet of Fire came out I received it for my fifteenth birthday from my grandmother. I was halfway through it when she took it from me, saying that she'd made a mistake and shouldn't have bought it for me. She'd seen all of the news about it being satanic and evil. I had to wait until I was nearly twenty years old to pick it up again. Starting the series over was like revisiting somewhere I'd been on vacation, seeing people I'd once known. I instantly fell back into the story and picked the books up whenever I could squeeze in just a few pages. The story encompasses so many aspects of life and death and all of the things in between that it is relevant and legible to both adults and children alike. To me, this story is just that, a story of a life, that leads to a death, which leads to the continuation of life.