The story, characters and setting have become part of the iconography of British popular culture. We all – on glorious winters mornings, when the curtains were whisked back to reveal the virginal glare of freshly-fallen snow – imagined a fussing faun stumbling around the corner of our streets, pausing beneath the glare of a fizzing electric light with an armful of tumbling parcels. We all pushed through racks of C&A shirts and flouncy blouses to tentatively rap the back of our parents’ wardrobes. What more is there to say? We all read it as children. The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe is so entangled with our memories of the collective 20th century childhood that reviewing the book anew felt as pointless as looking for a fresh angle on breathing or sleeping. Initially, casting a revisionist eye over such a famous novel felt superfluous.
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