Nature. Nurture. Novels. If you grew up preinternet—were talking the 70s and 80s （“the olden days”， as my daughter calls it） —books brought you up， exerting as much influence on who you were and who you became as anything， or anyone. My school friends and I， some bookish， others not， all read ourselves into being and navigated our way through the wilds of childhood and adolescence with dog-eared novels as maps. There wasnt much else to do. And you had to get your information from somewhere.

Parents—laissez-faire baby boomers（helicopter parenting hadnt been invented）—werent particularly interested and， if asked， would usually send you off in the wrong direction， to the wrong bookshelf， to something dusty—“Oh， I loved Vanity Fair at your age！” —not understanding our craving for fat books with silver-embossed covers， smelling of hormones and airports and America， page corners sticky from rereading， books that showed us dazzling new worlds—outside the suburb， beneath our skirts—and had all the best lines.

At a time when TV was rubbish， the local library was a refuge and a computer game meant Pac Man， we read ferociously， without cynicism or snobbery， inhabiting every page， dream readers—first as kids， then under the duvet with a camping torch， then as young teens—and it influenced who we were， who we became.

Its all still there： we are what we read. The current teen generation will leave behind a huge digital footprint—endless mortifying photos， videos， texts—but we left little， a few red-eyed snaps， some scratched vinyl records and a long， beloved reading list spanning Malory Towers to Sweet Valley High， Adrian Mole to Anne of Green Gables.

At a time when talking to children about emotions was seen as largely unnecessary—“Nope， lifes not fair，”distracted parents would shrug—books filled in childhoods lonelier gaps， made us feel better， a little more understood.

For sweet， brutal justice there was Roald Dahl—Veruca Salt had it coming. The sisterless had Little Women（“What would Jo do？”）. For the fantasy of hearty sibling adventure on boats while we squabbled in the landlocked shires， The Famous Five—although the best thing about Enid Blyton was that she was so prolific， it meant youd almost never run out of books. And if you were a latchkey kid， there was the happy possibility of stumbling into your very own secret garden， a patch of the rec behind the broken swing that could be yours， somewhere you could read undisturbed without being called a swot. When things got really bad—bullied at school， forced to share the dampest， smallest bedroom with your most annoying brother—well， at least you werent at Gateshead Hall with poor Jane Eyre.

When puberty hit， books could save your life， certainly save face. School sex education merged with worrying diagrams， forcing us to retreat to the warm bath of Judy Blumes novels—Are You There God？ Its Me， Margaret and Forever in particular. If Blume knew what crushes and periods and being 13 felt like， Jilly Cooper knew all about the dizzying possibilities of a riding crop and studded our dreams with Rupert Campbell-Black. In a paragraph， Jackie Collins could transport us from a grubby bunk bed to a Hollywood fourposter. While Shirley Conran， author of the unsurpassable Lace， introduced us to kick-ass career women.

Word of mouth was everything. If your best mate didnt rate it， it probably wasnt worth reading. It was always about the story and characters， never the author， who usually looked as dreary as any other grownup in the jacket photo and who， like your parents， somehow got in the way of the experience. Cult books were heatedly passed from one girl to another， dissected late into a sleepover， held above our heads as we sunbathed covered in baby-oil in parks， borrowed， “lost”， reluctantly returned. Infinitely precious， they would tell you things that even your ballsiest big sister didnt know， that your mother didnt think you should know. So subversive， they were thrillingly never stocked in the school library. Virginia AndrewsFlowers in the Attic was one， a brilliantly implausible saga of an evil grandmother. Better still， it was part of a series， like all the best books. You could create collections. Nothing beat the sight of my sacred Andrews books—all bought with hard-earned newspaper round money—lined up on my bookshelf， in order.

We read “proper” literature too， not giving a hoot about genres or critical acclaim， only about the book. It rocked or it didnt. It was silent， or it spoke to us—still the best test I think. I read Jeanette Wintersons Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit over and over， feeling forever changed by it. The Catcher in the Rye whispered in our ear， disruptively， like our cleverest， most cynical friend during assembly， crossing decades and continents： we knew all about phonies after all. Anne Frank was a heroine： her voice leapt off the page. And who didnt want to deliver a lemony one liner like Elizabeth Bennet？ Or wander the midsummer meadows in Dodie Smiths I Capture the Castle？

Of course， books enthrall and influence us all our lives but there is a rawness to reading when young， a blissfully entitled sense that the stories we read are ours， a world grownups， least of all parents， cant enter. And still cant： when I earnestly asked my 12-year-old son， a prolific reader and fan of the kind of quasi-violent teenage fiction I dont really approve of， which books had inspired him （I was digging for R.J.Palacios Wonder or John Greens The Fault in Our Stars）， he looked away， shrugged，“Hmm， dunno really，” as if hed never picked up a Kindle in his life.

I probably would have said just the same had my mother asked me the same question. Only she didnt ask. Because it was the olden days and we were left to get on with it， roam free， read free. Lucky us.

自然。滋養。小说。如果你成长于互联网诞生前的时代——我们说的是70年代和80年代（“旧时代”，就像我女儿说的那样）——书籍伴你成长，就像其他任何东西或任何人一样，影响着你的性格，还有你的人生路。我和学校里的朋友们，有些是书痴，有些不是，都通过阅读来造就性格，并用被翻得卷角的小说作为地图，指引我们安全地行驶过童年期和青少年时期的狂野时光。没有太多别的事情可做。而你又不得不通过某种途径来获取信息。

父母亲们——婴儿潮时期出生的自由主义者们（“直升机父母”尚未出现）——对孩子们并不是特别感兴趣，而且，如果被问及的话，常常会给你指错方向，指错书架，指到某些故纸堆里去——“噢，我在你这个年龄的时候喜欢看《名利场》！”——不明白我们的渴望，我们渴望那些银色浮雕封面的大部头作品，那些荷尔蒙、机场和美国的气息，那些因反复阅读变得黏糊的书角，那些向我们展示闪亮新世界的书籍——郊区之外，裙子之下——还有着一切最美的文字。

曾几何时，电视节目一文不值，本地的图书馆是人们的避难所，而电脑游戏只有《吃豆人》，我们于是狠命读书，既不愤世嫉俗也不附庸风雅，以每一页为寄托，成为理想的读者——首先是孩提时代，然后是打着野营手电筒藏在羽绒被下的日子，后来成了青少年——它影响了我们的性格，还有我们的人生路。

那些影响依然存在：我们成为怎样的人取决于我们读了什么书。如今的青少年一代将会留下……