When Robert Jordan’s parents couldn’t find a babysitter, they would utilize the services of his redoubtable older brother, who read to his four-year-old sibling from a rich varied repertoire of Mark Twain, Jules Verne, H.G. Wells and the like.
The common thread was a zestful, sometimes wry imagination. And Jordan was an exceedingly quick study.
“It was galvanizing, better than a movie. I could visualize all of it in my head. By the time I was five, I had taught myself how to read.”
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