I had to dig through my bookshelf to find a book I had almost but not quite forgotten about. Mammoth by John Varley was my Narnia. It was a just-because present from my college broke sister. I was ten, and I knew Mammoth was probably going to be a face-palmer. The tip-offs?
- The only books my sister ever reads are Serious Books. One bored weekend in her apartment, I found myself learning all about the joys of feminism in a concise work of literature topping a thousand pages. My sister had read over and highlighted the most important bits. Fun stuff.
- The book in question was purchased new for a dollar.
- I was ten. Mammoth was meant to be read by adults.
Oh, yeah. Ten-year-old me had major skills of deductive reasoning. But my skills had failed me. Mammoth was good. While I was right about some scenes being too old for me (what did Matt and Susan mean when they said making love? Why did they lay down together? So. Many. Questions.), the parts that made sense opened my mind up to the possibilities of the good in bigger, more complex books. Mammoth helped me to branch out and find worth while middle-grade books leading me to become my obviously awesome bibliophile self. : D