Roald Dahl's 'Matilda'

Roald Dahl published Matilda - a book about a genius child who develops special powers that enable her to right a great wrong - in 1988. It's a pre-Internet story from almost forty years ago, ostensibly for children, but most certainly with a strong message for adults as well, and a good read - perhaps an essential read - for child, parent and non-parent alike, even in 2026. 

Although it's a modern children's classic, and the subject of two films, one of them a musical, I never knew of this book's existence until spring last year, when I discovered a copy in an Exmouth antiques shop and decided to buy it. Why, I can't honestly say, as I generally avoid anything intended for children, especially school stories: that's why Harry Potter has passed me by. I did notice the appealing Quentin Blake illustrations inside. And the notion of a misunderstood and neglected child with a brilliant mind was intriguing. I also knew that Roald Dahl was a master of cautionary tales, often with a twist in them.  

But first, why did I have to overcome a personal resistance to children's tales? 

Well, for me childhood was an imprisonment, a long painful phase to endure with patience, and certainly nothing to look back on with misty eyes. I know that many do see childhood as the best time of their lives, a carefree magical time, particularly if there are doting grandparents around. And adulthood, with its heavyweight responsibilities and obligations, as the other side of the mountain: the fearful dark side. But I longed to grow up. Leaving childhood behind brought me excitement, opportunities, know-how, stature in my own eyes, and eventually sufficient judgement to take risks and insist on what I really wanted. 

And here I am, the buoyant survivor of losses, challenges and setbacks, though my own experiences were surely nothing compared with what others have gone through. But I am at least unbeaten and unafraid, still an optimist, with plans to pursue, and plenty of hope. And - although it's an odd thing to say - I feel entirely self-made, and not one shaped and moulded by others. A delusion, no doubt! 

I was gasping for air as a child. I was considered academically bright but with strange gaps in my achievements. In particular, I was reluctant to join in. But I loathed the oppressive and restrictive school system. I began to blossom only when I could escape. I grabbed my A-Levels, skipped university, and ran into the adult world that I'd so long yearned for. Of course it was a shock, like plunging naked into a cold sea, but even so it was much, much better than being shackled to any school curriculum. I learned fast, rapidly adapted, and continued to adapt as new things came my way. That's still my approach. I'm aiming to live well into the 2050s, and will surely see extraordinary changes. Bring them on. I'm quite sure that I'll cope.

Given my bleak take on being very young, you might suppose that I'd pick up Roald Dahl's book and immediately put it down. But I didn't. I thought it might tell me something. So I bought it, and read it to the end.  

It is of course a fantasy tale, full of deliberate extremes. The very young heroine is staggeringly intelligent. She has an adult's brain, even if without an adult's experience and understanding. Her family is superlatively the opposite: childish, trivial and utterly crass. The headmistress of her school is savage to a degree that would put her in prison in the real world. I think that's how a child might see things: everything in stark contrast, all black and white, hot or cold, without nuance, and all without a clear reason. 

Because her home life is so unrewarding - Matilda isn't ill-treated, only ignored or put down - she seizes every chance to go out and devour the books in her local library, discovering many of the classics, traditional and modern, and learning something about how adults behave. And although many things puzzle her, such as why people fall in love, this endeavour teaches her a lot about life and fuels growth in both her imagination and her capacity to lap up yet more knowledge. She is also something of a mathematical prodigy. (I'm afraid I was none of these things; but then I suspect nor were most kids, whatever they said)

Well, I don't want to give away too much of what happens. Suffice it to say that she forms a bond with her young teacher and rescues her from a terrible and unjust predicament using a cunning plan and special powers that she has developed. The story ends with her parents off the scene and Matilda safely in the protective arms of her teacher. 

It's a story that ends very well - if you're a child! The goodies definitely win out over the baddies. And Matilda herself can continue to develop her intellect with her teacher to fondly look after her, in a proper home, with books galore, and every encouragement.

The adult in me picked holes in that scenario straightaway. Unless the teacher could quickly become her guardian, Matilda's fate was bound to be quite different. Council care, then a foster home, surely. Or if there were any advantage in it, her awful parents would come back for her. Or the teacher would turn into a kind of manager. Or scientists and doctors would descend, and cart Matilda off to some special institution.

Just as well it's only a children's story!

Did the book end well for me? Only if I were able to be a child again, and could react appropriately. And that was beyond me. But was that surprising? Most adults seem to lose the ability to think like a child, and to understand how a child sees things. I was no different. But it's always puzzled me, why adults can't see things as a child sees them. After all, we were all very young once: why does this amnesia happen?  

Perhaps in very old age we do remember, and can enter a child's mind again like we once did as children ourselves. I can believe that grandparents and great-grandparents have this ability when near the end. It must be an extraordinary experience for the wondering child, who realises that they are understood as even their own parents don't understand them. I had no grandparents in my life, and that kind of magic was never mine. I can't help feeling that it was an irreplaceable loss.

I do share one thing with Matilda: a love of reading. Long live books.