So yes, I’m afraid I regard ‘Imagining Harry Potter Without its Creator’ as rather problematic.

Clearly, to compare Rowling to Michelangelo is to risk ridicule. And to be honest, I have found her fans as tiresome as her tormentors. There was a time, it seemed, when every outrage against liberal progressive orthodoxy, from Trump to Brexit to Jeremy Clarkson, seemed refracted by certain types through the prism of the Sorting Hat, the Ministry of Magic and the Dementors. People whose reading had never got beyond Melville, Dostoevsky or Eliot, meanwhile, were subjected to eye-rolling by those who had mastered the full set, the multi-coloured canon of Potterworld. Hence, my interaction with her work had largely been limited to muttering ‘read another effing book’ to myself, every time I encountered the text being used to understand or illuminate The Discourse.

So, to say I am a fan would be pushing it. But the fact is that my daughter, then aged about 12, was more profoundly dismayed when she realised that she had reached the end of Harry Potter, that there were no more rooms to explore or characters to meet, than she was when her grandfather died, when we left the kennels without a puppy, or when her best friend moved on.