There were exceptions. I adored “Harriet the Spy,” though that seems easy enough to explain. Already loving movies (and the idea of detectives and spies), I must have recognized in Harriet a fellow voyeur. But when teachers or librarians or even classmates extolled the virtues of most kids’ books, I think I expected something like the Disney movies I knew I was supposed to like more than I did. And since I’ve always resented authority, I bristled when anyone tried to change my reading habits, like the fifth-grade teacher who questioned my parents on whether the Ross Macdonald mysteries I was reading were — that damnable word — “appropriate.”

So as an adult I found myself with even more reading to catch up on than most adults. And 12 years ago, during a miserable winter when my family was being visited by more than its share of sickness and death, I picked up “The Secret Garden” — and felt as if I’d stumbled onto a secret that had been there for my discovering all along. It would be unfair to Frances Hodgson Burnett to say that I loved “The Secret Garden” (and “The Little Princess,” which I read immediately after) merely because it provided a soothing escape from everything that was going on in my life. I lost myself in the book because it was first of all a great story. But finally it gave me the gift that I think marks all first-rate literature, no matter what age it’s intended for: an escape that’s ultimately a way back into life.

The standard line on children’s literature is that to do it well you have to know how to write simply. That’s not quite right. To do it well, you have to know how to write essentially. Books that are nothing more than lessons to be imparted, books that we’re supposed to like because somebody has decreed them good for us, will always smack of school and duty. That’s the antithesis of the only real reason anyone reads: pleasure. Kids’ lit can contain lessons, meanings, messages of comfort or heralds of experiences that lie in wait for young readers. But the minute any of those things overtake narrative, the book is sunk. (Which is why William Bennett’s reductive, droning insistence that the duty of literature is the impartation of virtue bears no relation to what draws us to reading in the first place or — if we’re honest with ourselves — what keeps us reading.) Of course there are differences in scope and complexity between the work of Dickens or Hardy or Fitzgerald or Angus Wilson, and books like “The Wind in the Willows” or Roald Dahl’s “Matilda” or “The Chronicles of Narnia” (which, at a friend’s suggestion, got me out of one of my ruts a few years ago). But allowing for those obvious and inevitable distinctions, what separates great novelists from great children’s novelists strikes me as less important than what unites them — namely the intention of taking their readers on a journey that insists that experience can be both “very exciting and rather terrible” and “very surprising and splendid and beautiful” (to borrow descriptions from the loveliest chapter of “The Wind in the Willows”).

The fullness of that sort of reading pleasure makes you greedy, reluctant to settle for writing that does less. Too much contemporary literature feels less like taking a journey than like grabbing a cup of coffee in some nondescript cafe. There seems to be a lurking embarrassment at the very notion of immersing readers in something bigger than themselves. Tom Wolfe (himself a mediocre novelist) has spent much of the last decade complaining that novelists no longer feel compelled to report on society and its institutions (which is why a novel like Richard Price’s “Freedomland” feels so meaty). But I’d guess that the sense of what’s lacking in contemporary literature has more to do with the emotional and imaginative limits that are the result of the quirky and personal spheres in which many fiction writers have circumscribed themselves. It’s the sense of shared experience, of being swept up, that I value in children’s literature. Danny DeVito’s wonderful film of Dahl’s “Matilda” sums it up beautifully with the message his young heroine discovers when she falls in love with books: “You are not alone.”

Those words can be taken as simple comfort, or they can be taken as a deceptively simple reminder of the basic responsibility of living. Because, of course, the villains in kids’ literature act as if they are alone, while the heroic beauty of the protagonists is often that, in spite of being outcasts who feel alone, they refuse that kind of selfishness. In other words, the heroes of kid’s lit are fantasies of the people we hope we can be.

The hero of J.K. Rowling’s “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone” is an outsider, one who, like many other outsiders in kids’ literature, learns to value the things that have always made him feel separate from the people around him, and who also learns that the means of escape from his solitary existence has been within him all along. The book is a dream of belonging, and of discovering self-sufficiency and courage. What matters, though, is the flesh Rowling puts on those thematic bones. I don’t think you can read 100 pages of “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone” before you start feeling that unmistakable shiver that tells you you’re reading a classic. Rowling’s own story is irresistible: a single mom, she began writing the book while unemployed and got a grant from the Scottish Arts Council enabling her to finish it. The first book in a cycle of seven (the second volume is already out in Britain and will be published here in the fall; the third volume will appear in the U.K. in June), “Harry Potter” has become something of a children’s publishing phenomenon, one of those rare books that crosses over to adult readers (it’s currently on the New York Times Bestseller list).

Harry Potter’s life starts with one of the tragedies that heroes carry with them like scars (in fact, he bears a mysterious lightning-shaped scar on his forehead). Harry’s parents are killed when he is just an infant, and he grows up in the shabby care of his aunt and uncle, Vernon and Petunia Dursley, and their horror of a son, Dudley. The Dursleys are the sort of oppressively ordinary dullards that Dahl took delight in savaging — not because they’re ordinary, but because they’re so utterly self-satisfied about being ordinary, and so suspicious of anyone who isn’t. They’re characters who epitomize the word the book’s wizards use to describe people without magical powers: Muggles. (We’ve all got a few Muggles in our families.) Within the stultified suburban London confines of 4 Privet Drive, Harry lives a Grimm existence, sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs (which he shares with spiders) and being the whipping boy for Dudley and his sluggard pals. Life continues this way until Harry is 11, when suddenly an emissary from Hogwarts, a school that has trained generations of wizards, drops into his life. The messenger, an enormous bear of a man named Hagrid (who will become Harry’s protector), informs Harry that he is in fact the son of wizards killed by the dark wizard Voldemort. Voldemort was not able to kill Harry (he could inflict no more damage than that lightning-shaped scar), though the word is that the dark wizard is biding his time, consolidating his power. With his own training ahead of him, Harry is whisked away to Hogwarts and there begin his adventures.

Rowling is the most matter-of-fact fantasy writer you could hope for. Each marvel — like the owls who deliver morning mail at Hogwarts, or the school sport of Quidditch, a kind of field hockey played in the air while riding broomsticks — is treated in a one-thing-after-another manner that keeps any hint of preciousness from creeping in. Her straightforwardness (with just the right degree of the nasty humor kids love) keeps her writing grounded. She’s come up with a nifty metaphor for the way in which magic exists in the guise of the ordinary: The world of wizards exists in comfortable parallel to the Muggle world, visible only to those with powers, happily invisible to everyone else. Thus, the train to Hogwarts leaves from a hidden platform at King’s Cross, and the wizard business district is accessible only from a walled courtyard behind a pub.

“Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone” unites the English novel of school day exploits with the humorous, macabre fantasy that Dahl perfected. In the time-honored tradition of the latter, Harry quickly locates a best friend (Ron Weasley, the latest in a long line of siblings who’ve attended Hogwarts, his being the sort of middle-class family that sacrifices to send the kids to a good school), a nemesis (the snobby rich kid Draco Malfoy), the class overachiever who nonetheless becomes his friend (Hermione Granger), the little kid made to be picked on (Neville Longbottom) and the teacher who seems to have it out for him (Snape). It’s the best compliment I can pay Rowling that she’s created characters who live up to the names she’s picked out for them. They’re types, yes, but so fully drawn that they break the molds.

I realize that the book I’m describing sounds like no more than an amusing diversion. But I said that literature is a diversion that offers a way back to life. And while comfort may be one of the goals of those children’s books that are fantasies of belonging, there’s nothing cushy or insular about the best children’s books, which never deny the possibility of pain or loss. You might even argue that the tragedies of these books hurt even more (the way the tragedies of great musicals do) because they occur within an idealized fantasy world. “Harry Potter” reassures its readers that they won’t get lost as they enter into new experiences, but at the same time it never denies the ache of what you leave behind. That’s the emotional balance Rowling maintains, and I can sum up the keenness of this book’s emotions by quoting the passage that describes the author’s most remarkable and moving invention. Prowling around the school one night after lights out, Harry stumbles upon a room that contains a mirror. Looking in it, he’s startled to see himself surrounded by a crowd of people with eyes and hair just like him. Harry doesn’t know that the mirror shows whoever looks into it their heart’s fondest desire, but the realization dawns on him that he is “looking at his family, for the first time in his life.” Rowling continues:

The Potters smiled and waved at Harry and he stared hungrily back at them, his hands pressed flat against the glass as though he was hoping to fall right through it and reach them. He had a powerful kind of ache inside him, half joy, half terrible sadness.

How long he stood there, he didn’t know. The reflections did not fade and he looked and looked until a distant noise brought him back to his senses. He couldn’t stay here, he had to find a way back to bed. He tore his eyes away from his mother’s face, whispered, “I’ll come back,” and hurried from the room.

The beauty of that passage, in both conception and execution (Rowling is an astonishingly visual writer), needs no explication. But perhaps you have to have made your way through too many exquisitely crafted novels that didn’t make you feel anything beyond a vague admiration for their craft to understand why reading a passage like that can seem as necessary as coming upon a drink of cool water when you’re parched. So I don’t want to condescend to J.K. Rowling by saying she’s written a wonderful children’s novel. She’s written a wonderful novel, period. And to those who insist that novels should impart lessons, let the lesson of “Harry Potter” be the only distinction worth making in literature: separating the Muggles from the wizards.

As befits stories about magical powers, the popularity of Rowling’s debut novel, “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone” (published in Great Britain under the title “Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone”), is a little unconventional itself — a fire built kid by kid, fanned by whispers in classrooms on both sides of the Atlantic. Which makes it all the more phenomenal that the book, aimed at 8- to 12-year-olds, is currently enjoying its 15th week on the New York Times Bestsellers list. (By contrast, the last major “crossover” novel, Philip Pullman’s 1996 book “The Golden Compass,” was marketed as such by Knopf in an expensive campaign that made it a huge seller, though it did not make the Times list.)

A fresh, clear spring of thrilling narrative, “Harry Potter” is also No. 1 on the Independent Booksellers List, pulling ahead of John Grisham’s “The Testament.” It’s no wonder that in Britain, Rowling’s children’s books come in two jacket designs — one aimed at children and one plain enough that adults can read the books in public.

In the next book of the series, “Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets,” Rowling expands the fascinating world of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with surprises around every turn: a diary that writes back; ancestral portraits that primp and curl their hair at night; a behemoth groundskeeper with a soft spot for man-eating pets; a professor who died, didn’t notice and continued teaching as a ghost. At one point, Harry is warned that some books are dangerous: “Some old witch in Bath had a book that you could never stop reading! You just had to wander around with your nose in it, trying to do everything one-handed!”

Rowling has written another such book. Word-of-mouth publicity on the sequel has already been so strong that its American publisher, Scholastic, has announced that it is moving up the U.S. release date from September to June.

Clearly the publisher felt pressured by loyal Potterites who had already begun purchasing copies online or smuggling them in from the United Kingdom, where it was released last July. Executive Vice President Barbara Marcus also said Scholastic plans to schedule the release dates for the rest of the series closer to British publication dates “for obvious reasons.”

The story of Harry Potter’s creator, Joanne Rowling, is itself somewhat magical: She was impoverished and raising her baby daughter alone while finishing the first “Harry Potter” story; a grant from the Scottish Arts Council enabled her to finish it. (Knowing this makes you cheer all the louder when Harry himself escapes the spiritual poverty of his cruel aunt and uncle to board the train for Hogwarts School and its realm of infinite possibility and rich, if odd, traditions.) Salon reached Rowling in her home in Edinburgh, Scotland, where she talked about instant fame, the “muggle” and single motherhood.

The advertising copy for your book says that you were a struggling single mother when writing “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.” Could you tell more about that time?

In fact, I wasn’t a struggling single mother all the time that I was writing the first “Harry” book. It was only during the final year of writing that I found myself poorer than I’d ever been before. Obviously, continuing to write was a bit of a logistical problem: I had to make full use of all the time that my then-baby daughter slept. This meant writing in the evenings and during nap times.

I used to put her into the pushchair and walk her around Edinburgh, wait until she nodded off and then hurry to a cafe and write as fast as I could. It’s amazing how much you can get done when you know you have very limited time. I’ve probably never been as productive since, if you judge by words per hour.

What was it like when you realized the book was a success?

It sounds a bit twee, but nothing since has matched the moment when I actually realized that “Harry” was going to be published. That was the realization of my life’s ambition — to be a published author — and the culmination of so much effort on my part. The mere fact that I would see my book on a bookshelf in a bookshop made me happier than I can say.

I had been very realistic about the likelihood of making a living out of writing children’s books — I knew it was exceptionally rare for anybody to do it — and that didn’t worry me. I prayed that I would make just enough money to justify continuing to write, because I am supporting my daughter single-handedly. I was hoping I would be able to teach part-time (by this time I was working as a French teacher) and still write a bit.

Three months after British publication, my agent called me at about eight one evening to tell me there was an auction going on in New York for the book. They were up to five figures. I went cold with shock. By the time he called back at 10 p.m., it was up to six figures. At 11 p.m., my American editor, Arthur Levine, called me. The first words he said to me were: “Don’t panic.” He really knew what I was going through. I went to bed and couldn’t sleep. On one level I was obviously delighted, but most of me froze.

For the first time ever in my life, I got writer’s block. The stakes seemed to have gone up a lot, and I attracted a lot of publicity in Britain for which I was utterly unprepared. Never in my wildest imaginings had I pictured my face in the papers — particularly captioned, as they almost all were, with the words “penniless single mother.” It is hard to be defined by the most difficult part of your life. But that aspect of the story is, thankfully, receding a little in Britain; the books are now the story, which suits me fine.

In your books, Hogwarts School is incredibly fantastic, from its forbidden forest and Quidditch fields and endless castle dungeons to its talking portraits and Harry’s own snug four-poster bed. Do you see school as a potential sanctuary for children?

I’m often asked whether I went to boarding school and the answer is “no.” I went to a “comprehensive” — a state-run day school. I had no desire whatsoever to go to boarding school (though if it had been Hogwarts, I would have been packed in a moment). School can be a sanctuary for children, but it can also be a scary place; children can be exceptionally cruel to each other.

In this era of very involved parenting, do you think that the notion of boarding school and the autonomy it offers might hold an almost taboo allure for both kids and parents?

I think that’s definitely true. Harry’s status as orphan gives him a freedom other children can only dream about (guiltily, of course). No child wants to lose their parents, yet the idea of being removed from the expectations of parents is alluring. The orphan in literature is freed from the obligation to satisfy his/her parents, and from the inevitable realization that his/her parents are flawed human beings. There is something liberating, too, about being transported into the kind of surrogate family which boarding school represents, where the relationships are less intense and the boundaries perhaps more clearly defined.

Did any characters or scenes in “Harry Potter” stem from your experience as a single mother?

So much of “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone” was written and planned before I found myself a single mother that I don’t think my experiences at that time directly influenced the plot or characters. I think the only event in my own life that changed the direction of “Harry Potter” was the death of my mother. I only fully realized upon re-reading the book how many of my own feelings about losing my mother I had given Harry.

In your first book, the witches and wizards stand out as slightly odd when they’re in the “muggle,” or normal world — cloaked in capes with dozens of pockets. Are they meant to remind readers of homeless people?

Not necessarily of homeless people, although that image isn’t far off what I was trying to suggest. The wizards represent all that the true “muggle” most fears: They are plainly outcasts and comfortable with being so. Nothing is more unnerving to the truly conventional than the unashamed misfit!

Did your teaching experience help you write for children?

I taught for about four years, mainly teenagers. It is my own memories of childhood that inform my writing, however; I think I have very vivid recall of what it felt like to be 11 years old. The classics part of my degree at Exeter College did furnish me with a lot of good names for characters — not exactly the use my lecturers expected me to put it to, however.

One of the book’s loveliest characters is Hermione Granger, one of Harry’s best friends and a bookworm whose research invariably helps him unravel the mystery at hand. Hermione makes erudition seem so juicy and worthwhile, yet she’s very real, prone to crushes on self-inflated types. How did you dream her up?

Hermione was very easy to create because she is based almost entirely on myself at the age of 11. She is really a caricature of me. I wasn’t as clever as she is, nor do I think I was quite such a know-it-all, though former classmates might disagree. Like Hermione, I was obsessed with achieving academically, but this masked a huge insecurity. I think it is very common for plain young girls to feel this way. Similarly, her crushes on unsuitable men … well, I’ve made my mistakes in that area. Just because you’ve got a good brain doesn’t mean you’re any better than the next person at keeping your hormones under control!

What were the most memorable books you read as a child?

My favorite book when I was younger was “The Little White Horse” by Elizabeth Goudge. My mother gave me a copy when I was 8; it had been one of her childhood favorites. I also loved “Manxmouse” by Paul Gallico and, of course, C.S. Lewis’ Narnia books.

In both Harry Potter books, your vocabulary is extraordinarily rich and inventive. How does one encourage children to cultivate a bank of words like this?

I always advise children who ask me for tips on being a writer to read as much as they possibly can. Jane Austen gave a young friend the same advice, so I’m in good company there.

v Do you think the English language is more alive in Great Britain than in the United States?

Part of what makes a language “alive” is its constant evolution. I would hate to think Britain would ever emulate France, where they actually have a learned faculty whose job it is to attempt to prevent the incursion of foreign words into the language. I love editing “Harry” with Arthur Levine, my American editor — the differences between “British English” (of which there must be at least 200 versions) and “American English” (ditto!) are a source of constant interest and amusement to me.

Being a mother often requires a sort of generalist or Jill-of-all-trades expertise — part nurse, playmate, chef, maid, bodyguard — with endless distractions. It is so different from writing, where single-minded concentration and discipline is usually needed. How do you reconcile the two?

I write while my daughter is at school, and don’t even try when she’s around — she’s too old for naps now.

Do you have any advice for struggling single mothers?

I am never very comfortable giving other single mothers “words of advice.” Nobody knows better than I do that I was very lucky — I didn’t need money to exercise the talent I had — all I needed was a Biro and some paper. Nor do other single mothers need to be reminded that they are already doing the most demanding job in the world, which isn’t sufficiently recognized for my liking.

I have read that Warner Brothers bought the film rights to “Harry Potter.” How do you feel about Hollywood re-creating your characters?

A mixture of excitement and nervousness! I do think “Harry” would make a great film, but obviously I feel protective towards the characters I’ve lived with for so long.

How do you envision your future?

Well, I’ll be writing, and that’s about all I know. I’ve been doing it all my life and it is necessary to me — I don’t feel quite normal if I haven’t written for a while.

I doubt I will ever again write anything as popular as the “Harry” books, but I can live with that thought quite easily. By the time I stop writing about Harry, I will have lived with him for 13 years, and I know it’s going to feel like a bereavement. So I’ll probably take some time off to grieve, and then on with the next book!