J.G. Ballard: My Favorite Books

As I grow older — I’m now in my early 60s — the books of my childhood seem more and more vivid, while most of those that I read 10 or even five years ago are completely forgotten. Not only can I remember, half a century later, my first readings of “Treasure Island and Robinson Crusoe,” but I can sense quite clearly my feelings at the time — all the wide-eyed excitement of a seven-year-old, and that curious vulnerability, the fear that my imagination might be overwhelmed by the richness of these invented worlds. Even now, simply thinking about Long John Silver or the waves on Crusoe’s island stirs me far more than reading the original text. I suspect that these childhood tales have long since left their pages and taken on a second life inside my head.