Two of the stories I loved the most as a child were Cinderella, which I read and reread and The Little Princess. Both were of girls whose fathers had died and left them in the hands of abusers. The girls somehow managed through their lives, with smiles and friendships until they were one day released from their prisons of impoverishment. Perhaps the stories were meant to encourage young girls in abusive situations to be strong or it could be that they were taught the wrong things completely – like holding out for a prince charming to rescue them or to believe in a fantasy escapism that could never really be reality. Did I hold out for that as a young adult? No, most definitely not. Literature has always been a means of entertainment, it doesn’t necessarily teach you to buy into capitalism, your parents teach you that when they insist you can’t play in a band, you need to study, to get the certificate, that enables you to earn the big bucks. I grew up impoverished myself, but I didn’t realize how poor I was until I was out of the poverty. When you are poor, you don’t sit back as a child and compare yourself to Cinderella, you laugh and you play, and you are a happy child, even without all the toys. The same would apply then to any child who reads, they are merely enjoying childhood. We could read so much into the occult meanings behind The Wizard of Oz or we could accept that when you read The Girl on the Train, or The Little Engine that Could, you can distinguish the fantasy from reality, whether you are 7 or 17.