It's an often-discussed question among writers and reader-types: What is the book that defined you as a young person? Which book, amid the ebb and flow, flotsam and detritus, solid and ephemeral, that makes a reader's consciousness, still shines bright after all these years?
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For me, that book was, and still is, Harriet the Spy, by Louise Fitzhugh. I first read it when I was about 12, and again pretty much every year until I resolved to stop re-reading books because I would never progress. But then I learned that Harriet the Spy, published in 1964, turns 50 this week, and pulled out my dog-eared copy for a bit of comfort.
Like all classics, it's easy to see why the book - considered controversial in its day because of its less-than-perfect heroine - has endured. And for this reader, more than 20 years on, Harriet delivers as usual, although I'm surprised this time to discover how many character traits I still share with the plucky, disagreeable, moody and impatient 11-year-old.
I also realise that, despite the happy shock of recognition I had the first time I read it - along with generations of other young readers - my life and Harriet's are almost nothing alike.
Harriet lives in a brownstone in New York's Upper West Side, has a maid, a nanny and a cook, drinks egg creams at the local diner and measures her walks to school in blocks. But when you start reading books from a young age, you absorb all these details unthinkingly.
I was always much more interested in what Harriet did, what she thought, her work ethic and how she dealt with adversity than the superficial details of her life. Harriet carried a notebook everywhere and wrote in it compulsively, spied on people and wrote mean things about her friends.
She was also a fiery little individual who hated change and loved things to be just so: ''Harriet loved doing everything every day in the same way.'' It's hard to articulate what a relief it is to read this, even now. When you're 11, you are who you are and see no reason why this is a problem.
Once you hit 13, and for many, many years afterwards, you spend a lot of time wanting to fit in, then stand out, then find yourself or lose yourself. It wasn't until my 30s that I made peace with myself and my foibles. But I'm still thankful to be more Harriet than ever.
