My attitude is that if anybody of any age wants to read a book

Host: The rain fell in silver threads across the library window, smearing the city lights into watercolor ghosts. The room smelled of paper, dust, and coffee gone cold. Outside, the streets glimmered with reflections — cars, neon signs, fragments of a world too restless to read anymore. Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other at a long oak table, surrounded by stacks of books older than both of them combined.

The clock ticked with an almost ceremonial patience. Jack leaned back, his grey eyes fixed on the ceiling, while Jeeny held a slim paperback — Boneland by Alan Garner — her fingers tracing the worn edges as if it were alive.

Jeeny: “Garner once said — ‘My attitude is that if anybody of any age wants to read a book, let them, but I do think that no child would want to read Boneland.’”

Jack: “He’s probably right. Some books aren’t written for children — they’re written by the children we used to be, trying to make sense of what happened to us.”

Host: The lamp beside them flickered softly, throwing gold light over the table, carving shadows like memories across their faces.

Jeeny: “That’s sad, though. We start reading to find wonder, and we end up reading to understand why wonder left.”

Jack: “Or maybe that’s just growing up. You stop reading for escape and start reading for evidence — of how to survive the damage.”

Jeeny: “But doesn’t that kill the magic? Literature used to be the bridge between worlds. Now it’s therapy.”

Jack: “Maybe magic was the therapy all along.”

Host: Rain tapped harder on the glass, like the heartbeat of time itself. The library’s silence was thick, sacred — the kind that only exists where old stories sleep.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the first book that made you cry?”

Jack: “The Little Prince. I was nine. I didn’t even understand half of it, but something about that fox — about taming and loss — stayed with me. I reread it when I was thirty. It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t a story anymore. It was a mirror.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Garner means, I think. Boneland isn’t for children because it’s written by a man who’s forgotten what it felt like to believe without proof. Kids don’t want mirrors. They want doors.”

Jack: “And adults want keys.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window, and a few pages of an open book fluttered like wings. Jeeny closed her eyes, listening to the sound — paper breathing.

Jeeny: “But should there even be limits? Shouldn’t a child be allowed to read whatever calls to them? Even if it’s too dark, too complex, too broken?”

Jack: “You can hand a child Boneland, but they won’t follow you into it. Some books are like haunted houses — you have to lose something first before you understand what the ghosts are saying.”

Jeeny: “So freedom of reading still has a threshold.”

Jack: “It’s not about rules — it’s about resonance. A story can only enter you when you’re the right kind of open.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes literature dangerous and holy at the same time? That it chooses when to reveal itself?”

Jack: “Exactly. Books are like people — they speak differently depending on who’s listening. A child hears magic; an adult hears memory. Same words, different wounds.”

Host: Jeeny set the book down gently, her fingers lingering on the cover. The title — Boneland — glowed faintly under the lamp, a single bone-white word against darkness.

Jeeny: “You know what’s strange? Garner wrote The Weirdstone of Brisingamen for children — full of myths, caves, and wild adventure. Then decades later, he wrote Boneland to end that story. But by then, the hero had grown up. So had the pain.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s like he wrote a fairytale that grew old enough to mourn itself.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why no child would want to read it — because it’s about what happens after the magic ends.”

Jack: “And we spend the rest of our lives pretending it didn’t.”

Host: The light dimmed again, softer now. The library’s hum deepened, as if the books themselves were listening — millions of voices stored in ink, waiting for the right moment to awaken.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wonder if growing up means betraying the child you were?”

Jack: “Every day. But maybe that betrayal is necessary. Maybe that’s how you learn compassion — by realizing what you lost.”

Jeeny: “Then Boneland isn’t for adults or children. It’s for the part of us stuck between both.”

Jack: “Exactly. The part that knows too much to believe, but not enough to forget.”

Host: A long pause hung in the air. The rain slowed, softening into a whisper. The clock ticked on, steady as breath.

Jeeny: “Still… I think kids should be allowed to find their own pain in stories. Even if they don’t understand it yet. Maybe a book can plant a seed of sadness that blossoms into wisdom later.”

Jack: “Maybe. But it’s cruel to hand them despair without context. Let them keep their dragons and fairy queens a little longer. Reality’s waiting — it doesn’t need an invitation.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you think the world’s already darker than any fairytale? Kids see more now than we ever did.”

Jack: “And that’s exactly why we should protect what’s left of their innocence. Let them believe in wonder before the world teaches them to analyze it.”

Jeeny: “So you’d hide Boneland from them?”

Jack: “Not hide. Just… wait. Let it find them when they’re ready. Some books don’t need to be forced. They’ll come for you when your heart cracks the right way.”

Host: Jeeny smiled — that small, knowing smile that carried both sorrow and grace. The rain had stopped entirely now. The city’s hum seeped faintly through the walls.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “The reason no child would read Boneland isn’t because they can’t. It’s because they still believe the story can end happily. Adults know it never really ends.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe Garner wasn’t warning kids off — maybe he was protecting them. Keeping the ache of understanding at bay a little longer.”

Jeeny: “That’s love, in a way.”

Jack: “Or guilt.”

Host: The lamp flickered one last time before dimming to a faint glow. The library seemed to sigh — a chorus of wood and whispers.

Jeeny stood, walking to the window. The streets outside glistened with wet light, the city reflecting itself endlessly.

Jeeny: “You ever think books grow old with us?”

Jack: “Yeah. Some of them even die with us.”

Jeeny: “And some resurrect.”

Host: She turned back to him, eyes dark and gentle, the kind of look that carries both memory and forgiveness.

Jack: “So what do we do now?”

Jeeny: “We keep reading. Even when it hurts.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The rain had ceased, but its echo lingered, like a lullaby from another age.

The lamplight glowed faintly over Boneland, resting open between them — its pages trembling in the faint draft, alive again.

And in that small library, beneath the weight of time and paper, two souls sat between the child they once were and the truth they could no longer unknow —

— both reading, both remembering, both quietly free.