A few of the books I sobbed over in childhood can still raise a tear. Anyone else?
Many books make me cry when I encounter them for the first time, although fewer these days than during my mascara-smeared teens. But it’s rare that a childhood favourite still has the power to call forth tears. Mostly, I find, the potency of even the most sorrowful children’s book fades with time, like the scent of a floral sachet – there might be a little lingering whiff of lavender, a tiny prickle at the back of the eye, but no sign of the once irresistible overflow and puckering plop of tear-drop onto page. There are, however, notable exceptions.