The first thing I can honestly remember reading, when I was six or so, was "The Ugly Duckling". It aroused in me the melancholy of life, gave me to see the deep sadness which pervades all romance, beauty and adventure. Might our first strong imaginative experience set a 'tone' which persists? I know not. It may be coincidence. I laughed heartily at the old hen-bird's wise remark that the world extended beyond the next field and much further. I could perceive the humour of that. But when the ugly duckling at last flew away on his strong pinions, and when he met the swans and was accepted as an equal, then I felt sorrowful, agreeably sorrowful. It seemed to me that nothing could undo, atone for, the grief and humiliations of the false duckling's early youth. I brooded over the injustice of his misfortunes for days. I was told: "It's only a story!" But what sort of response is that to a young mind with an imaginative predisposition? Of course it's only a story, but so is almost everything. i have never read "the Ugly Duckling" again. It survives in my memory as a long and complex narrative, crowded with vague and mysterious allusions, and wet with the tears of things. What is the central message? Know your place? Fit in or else? And childhood is crammed full of these 'moral' stories. What harm are we doing to children unintentionally? I start to think that most education is in fact a form of child abuse, but can offer no alternative. It may be the time of year. I am experiencing a certain lassitude and an inclination to be more than usually cynical.
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