Like many in publishing, I got into reading early. It was (and is) a great refuge from the dreaded team sports, and an escape from the slow, predictable suburbia of my hometown. CS Lewis, Tolkien and Madeleine L’Engle were three authors my brother and I endlessly reread back then, but before them, there was Roald Dahl.

For a little while, somewhere in those years, I had a pen-pal called Adam who lived in London. Roald Dahl came to his school one day to give a talk. This piece of news unleashed a tidal wave of jealousy in me; and then a few months later, Dahl passed away from a rare blood disease.

My favourite Dahl book is probably The Witches. Beyond the fantastic story, it had Quentin Blake’s unforgettable book cover illustration, which set a template in my confused mind for what a cover girl must be – manipulative, black-clad and wielding a terrifying power over her plainer sisters.

Anyway, this past week the Observer ran a startlingly honest interview with Felicity Dahl , the author’s widow. The interview process is draining for Dahl, who still hates setting foot inside her husband’s unchanged, un-tidied writing shed, but she agreed for the sake of publicising the Roald Dahl Funny Prize. The piece brings home what a full, dangerous life Roald Dahl led, and how much tragedy ran through it. Half his immediate family had died by the time he turned five, and then public school and World War II, as well as the illness of his loved ones, irrevocably changed the course of his life and work. It is astonishing that someone who lit up so many imaginations with his hilarious stories had experienced so much loss.

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