Writer Joanne Harris wrote in her blog a tedious post about how adults stole "Harry Potter". The children were stolen. At first, writes Harris, Harry Potter's universe did not look too much out from under the table, it was a place of pure and pure children's joy, you know, there - an area where you can smile with all your heart without ironic look at postmodernism.
But, Harris continues, at some point she began to notice that all the children had disappeared from this universe. They left that your mice were behind a Gammael rat in the form of puberty, and adults immediately squeezed in their place. Go to King's Cross Station in London and there the adults in striped scarves are desperate to cling to the carts embedded in the wall as leaving childhood. Go to the Internet, and there in general do not understand what is going on - age, as they say now, people with such almost zestorovaniye poporivayut hazelnut, clean volcanoes and that there is still, ignite the stars on a huge planet GP that the young crumbs with their pure pure pure pure and podstolnoy joy somehow a place on this planet is no longer left.
But Harris herself, perhaps without wishing to do so, has touched on this post another no less tangible problem - or even not a problem, and some noticeable difficulty, which every time pops up lying muggle on the road to the office and adult life - and the difficulty is due to the fact that conditionally so far can be called the lost Potterian generation. There is a huge group of people on earth - and they will not go anywhere soon - who have really grown up, or somehow formed on the books about Harry Potter. Grew up in the days when there were two, three, four books, when before the battle for Hogwarts were not months, but years, when the literary life of the rapidly growing crumbs-maggles (the same, apparently, that ceased to fit under the table) was possessed by a delightful uncertainty in the future and the personal life of the boy Harry. When Dumbledore was mourning at the international level, and Fred - a pottery than Dumbledore. When, in general, grew up here are all these children for whom the adventures of Harry Potter invented and wrote in real time.hoto: pottermore.com
And who were the luckiest (I'm still sure there's little compared to the incredible miracle of waiting for a new book when you know that the previous ones were very, very cool and brought into your life, if not five hundred Eskimos, then at least one beautiful evening spent in a state of perfectly and legally extended consciousness, when your personal overpass to Narnia or simply - from here - was felt, touched and almost real), and was not the most fortunate too. Potter's magic began and ended, leaving behind a whole generation of people who opened their mouths and did not catch Snitch, because he waved his tail, and the hearts broke. George Martin, the second acting wizard of the same scale, could perhaps repeat the thing, but he, first, and so initially wrote not for children - there was no one to drag from childhood the feeling of personal book miracle, to the books of Martin people came up with a mortgage, and who with a colonoscopy, in general, with the key is not to Narnia, and the antivirus. And secondly, Martin recently resembles something like Rip van Winkle: sat down for a minute, you see - twenty years have passed, and the miracle, even literary, also has an expiration date, taking into account the colonoscopy - the more so.
So, these sad grown up children, the same for whom the mantle invisible mantle rapidly turns into an invisible handkerchief, the same who at the age of eleven dreamed of a letter from Hogwarts, and at thirty-one - the cell in the bank of Gringotts - and are remembered in the first place when you begin to read a new play by Jack Thorne, who took - for lack of other full-blooded texts - the place of the eighth book in the canon. Because this book is all made for this generation of Lieutenant Potter's children, and it's both good and bad, but above all - extremely polite by Rowling, who at the end of the greatest story of the boy who survived, once again waved a wand and wiped out the nose of about a billion former children. And if you keep in mind that this play - something like a farewell party for their own, where you can take off the tightening cowards and twenty years of life, the whole story is made of it - no, not better, but somehow cuter and begins to resemble something not the most successful works of Dickens, which are still permeated by the golden Dickens genius and his undisguised love for the kind reader.
The whole play is not built on living in a new corner of the GP universe (these new corners are drawn by draughts of the same adult life - upbringing of children and necessity to do something with baldheads), but on reopening of its past pages. As, you know, everyone in the childhood, probably, had the book with a favourite piece - I do not know, how to name - a scene, a part which could be read on hundred times. I loved, for example, preparing to host guests at Jen