On Reading Aloud, for The Guardian / by Rich Hobbs

According to "Kids and Family Reading Report", the new survey from

children’s publisher Scholastic, 83% of children aged 6 to 17 said that they

"loved" or "liked" being read aloud to at bedtime. The report also reveals that

although only 37% of 6-8 year olds are read to, falling to 1 in 5 for children

aged 9-11, 31% of the children whose parents no longer read aloud to them

wanted them to carry on.

Speaking for myself, I stopped reading to our children about 15 years ago, by

which time our son and daughter were around 12 and 10 respectively. But for

the whole of their lives hitherto, originally alternating each night between bath

and reading duties, my wife and I trudged through the gamut of bedtime

stories, from the classics to some of the worst books I’ve ever come across.

To be honest, as new parents we started reading because we thought that that

was what we should do. From my own early childhood I can only remember

my own father reading the London Evening Standard’s "Billy the Bee" and

"Modesty Blaise" comic strips to me, so maybe I had a mission to

overcompensate. Either way, after we got beyond the bedtime song stage, we

entered in earnest on our regime of nightly reading, bizarrely enough after our

son, aged around 2, insisted each night on being shown the visitors’ guide to

Whipsnade Zoo where we’d recently spent a day that memorably featured him

being terrified into inconsolable screams by the grunt of an Indian rhino, post-


This was, perhaps, a strange gateway to literacy, but thereafter the demand

was as much from him as from our sense of parental duty. Sometimes, to be

sure, things got out of hand. There was a pop-up book about a white mouse

called Maisie he loved so much he pleaded, one night, that he be allowed to

have it with him in his cot. By the next morning, inevitably, the book was torn

to pieces, an early lesson in how we’re fated to kill the thing we love.

His sister, 20 months younger, was soon along for the ride too. Mostly at this

stage we still inhabited the realm of picture books. This was the way I

discovered the oeuvre of truly great artists and illustrators like Shirley Hughes

and Tony Ross, who’d emerged, unbeknownst to me, since my own

childhood. Thus the bedtime sessions became a joy for all of us. Though

naturally there were some complete stinkers in the ever growing mix. This

wasn’t a problem if we’d borrowed the book from the library - after a week,

with luck, you’d never have to see or open the bloody thing ever again - but

other books arrived as gifts, presumably to be treasured forever. Thus my

several failed attempts to throw away a thin volume about a mentally defective

pig called Pog, whose adventures consisted of him hiding behind his hands to

become invisible or standing in a hole. Each time the wails of dismay forced

me to repent and retrieve the book from the bin. Our daughter thought was

hilariously funny; although in retrospect I think she found my loathing for the

book even funnier: that’s how the bonds of family life and love, in all their

mesmeric contrariness, are created.

Over the coming years we got through the lot, with one or two omission. My

wife, having once worked for British Rail, wouldn’t tolerate Thomas the Tank

Engine because of its technological obscurantism and reinforcement of the

patriarchy. I simply can’t stand Enid Blyton, and neither of us rated Roald

Dahl, though we caved in and read him to our children because mostly we

were catholic in our collective taste: so we did Paddington, George

MacDonald, all of Narnia except for "The Last Battle" (for once I read ahead

and drew the line at C S Lewis’s "they’ve all been dead the whole time" cop-

out at the end). And we loved and reread forgotten classics from my wife’s

childhood library, like Enid Bagnold’s "Alice and Thomas and Jane".

If this all sounds rather precious, at the same time we had no compunction at

recruiting the telly as a friendly nanny, poisoning our children’s minds from

an early age with breath- takingly violent Bugs Bunny cartoons on top of hours

and hours of utter trash. But the books, crucially, were the ritual. After over a

decade, by which time our children were also hooked on computer games,

we reached the crescendo when I took a year to read them the whole of

"The Lord of the Rings".

I’d never previously read the thing myself, and couldn’t be bothered to read

ahead, so often had do some instantaneous editing to skip the lengthier verse

genealogies of, for instance, the Elf Kings of Elindor. I also, to amuse myself

more than our children, adopted different accents for each of the races of

Middle Earth: so the hobbits were Mummerset, the elves Welsh, the dwarves

Birmingham while the orcs spoke in thick Afrikaans through my own utterly

childish giggling. Even so, when Gandalf gets scoffed by the Balrath our son,

now 10, burst into tears.

After that, we moved on to T H White’s Arthurian books, but halfway through

the second volume it all sort of just petered out. By now they were reading

Harry Potter themselves, and also entering an age suited to solitary vice.

Remember, 300 years ago - the blink of an eye in the history of human literacy

- decent people were horrified by the emergence of The Novel, written to be

read, not aloud, but in your head alongside all that other uncontrollable,

unknowable, internal filth.

And I’ve no idea whether those ten years reading aloud did our children good

or ill, as neither of us were rigorous enough to use our son or daughter as an

unread-to control. But I do know that both of them, now in their mid-20s, fall

about laughing whenever they do a South African accent.