In 1905, my seventh year, the first great change in my life took place. We moved house. My father […] decided to build himself a much larger house, further out into what was then the country. The „New House“, as we continued for years to call it, was a large one even by my present standards; to a child it seemed less like a house than a city. My father, who had more capacity for being cheated than any man I have ever known, was badly cheated by his builders, the drains were wrong, the chimneys were wrong, and there was a draught in every room. None of this, however, mattered to a child. To me, the important thing about the move was that the background of my life became larger. […] I am a product of long corridors, empty sunlit rooms, upstair indoor silences, attics explored in solitude, distand noises of gurgling cisterns and pipes, and the noise of wind under the tiles.
Also, of endless books. My father bought all the books he read and never got rid of any of them. There were books in the study, books in the drawing-room, books in the cloakroom, books (two deep) in the great bookcase on the landing, books in the bedrooms, books piled as high as my shoulder in the cistern attic, books of all kinds reflecting every transient stage of my parents’s interests, books readable and unreadable, books suitable for a child and books most emphatically not. Nothing was forbidden me. In the seemingly endless rainy afternoons I took volume after volume from the shelves. I had always the same certainty of finding a book that was new to me as a man who walks into a field has of finding a new blade of grass. Where all these books had been before we came to the New House is a problem hat never occurred to me until I began writing this paragraph. I have no idea of the answer.
aus der Autobiografie Surprised by Joy (1955) von C. S. Lewis (1898-1963)