The books one reads in childhood create in…

The books one reads in childhood create in one’s mind a sort of false map of the world, a series of fabulous countries into which one can retreat at odd moments throughout the rest of life, and which in some cases can even survive a visit to the real countries which they are supposed to represent. The pampas, the Amazon, the coral islands of the Pacific, Russia, land of birch-tree and samovar, Transylvania with its boyars and vampires, the China of Guy Boothby, the Paris of du Maurier one could continue the list for a long time. But one other imaginary country that I acquired early in life was called America. If I pause on the word America, and deliberately put aside the existing reality, I can call up my childhood vision of it.