My earliest reading memory I was about five, sitting in my grandfather’s study in Brittany, listening to him reading to me in French from his translated copy of Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book. He read me those stories so often that when he tried to skip a section, or rephrase something he thought was clumsy, I would correct him word-for-word. His nickname for me was Grenouille (frog), which also happened to be what Mowgli, the young protagonist’s, name meant, and I was convinced the stories were about me. My favourite book growing up Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes. It had everything an imaginative, lonely child could want: a magical carousel; a carnival of monsters; the scent of autumn leaves in the sun; a glimpse of the darkness behind the nostalgia of childhood. And the language is as crisp and sweet as an October apple, awakening in me a passion for words and the magic they can evoke. The book that changed me as a teenager I first read Mervyn Peake’s Gormenghast when I was 15. I was supposed to be revising for my mock O-levels, but the book swallowed me whole from the first page. It was like nothing I’d ever read before: dense, strange, almost existentially bleak under its veneer of whimsy and humour. I was obsessed with it: the use of language; the hallucinating attention to detail; the illustrations; the deliberate breaking of all the rules. I’ve reread it regularly since then, and it never fails to offer new insights. The writer who changed my mind Dan Ariely. Until I read his book Predictably Irrational, about 10 years ago, I believed (as many do) that my decision-making process was generally objective and unaffected by my surroundings and emotional state. But after reading this fascinating and profoundly eye-opening book, I began to look at the nature of rational thought, social conformity, decision-making and moral values in a completely different way. The book that made me want to be a writer I don’t remember a time when I didn’t dream of being a writer. But I lived in a place where dreaming was generally discouraged. Being a writer was a fantasy, on a par with being a pirate, or a pony, or a space adventurer. The moment at which I realised that people could actually be writers was when I read the introduction to Ray Bradbury’s S Is for Space, and found him articulating things I’d assumed I was alone in feeling. The idea that the writers you love could become your chosen family was so potent that I carried it throughout my childhood and adolescence. I still do. The book or author I came back to James Joyce. I first read Ulysses at 15 – being under the impression that it was about Greek myths. I thought it was ugly, depressing and dull, and I hated it with a passion. It took me 40 years to finally return to it, and to find myself – maybe not quite enjoying, but at least understanding and beginning to appreciate it – the details and the mythic parallels, the references to different writing styles, and the groundbreaking technique. It’s still not my favourite, but at last I can see beyond that first, immature experience. The book I reread I often reread books, sometimes for comfort and sometimes because I find that really good books can grow alongside the reader, offering different insights as the reader gains life experience. When I first read Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights at 16, I read it as a love story and was swept away by the drama, passion and poignancy of the central relationships. Rereading it as an adult, I was struck by how different it seemed to me, and how much of the humour I’d missed. Now I love its poetry and rawness, and the love story that exists between Brontë and the North York Moors. The book I could never read again Though some exceptional books can develop and grow alongside us, others fall by the wayside. I’ve revisited so many childhood favourites to find that not only is the magic gone, but that viewed through the lens of adulthood some aspects of the narrative have become distinctly uncomfortable. I’m especially aware of the things I never noticed as a child: undercurrents of casual racism, sexism, homophobia, ableism, fatphobia – personal or societal attitudes that are sometimes so deeply embedded into the story that there’s no way to separate them from the text. In those cases I’m usually happy to leave the book behind. I’ve taken from it what I need. I don’t need to go back to it. The book I discovered later in life Because French was my first language, I missed out on a number of children’s classics during childhood. However I was lucky enough to discover them as an adult, when reading to my own child. The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame is one of these: timeless, compassionate and wise, filled with humour, nostalgia, friendship, keen observation and a deep love of the countryside and its wild places. The book I am currently reading Selina Mills: Life Unseen. It’s an extraordinary account of blindness, the mythology that surrounds it, the fallacies and taboos connected to it, and the attitudes towards it throughout the ages. Written by an author who is herself blind, it’s filled with fascinating information, practical insights and teaching moments about the nature of imagination, language and perception of our world. Maiden, Mother, Crone: A Collection by Joanne Harris is published by Gollancz (£25). To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.