This has nostalgia value and describes marvellously the effect books can have on certain sorts of children (I was a bit like that too), but if it's a representative example of Christopher Fowler's writing then it does little to encourage me to read his works of fiction. The book was allowed to ramble on long after the point had been amply made, and if one's own precocious childhood reading and film-absorbing hadn't involved the same titles Fowler read and saw, then chunks of the book are mildly diverting but unrewarding.