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[The following excerpt is from Mia Farrow’s 1997 autobiography What Falls Away. It’s clear that her father, John Farrow, was endowed with charisma.]

My brother Mike, six years my senior, taught me to read before I was four, kindling a passion that has never waned. I discovered that through the written word I could voyage outside the perimeters of my own awareness into other minds, other sensibilities, and into any imaginable experience. Even now when I bring home a new book, my heart beats a little faster, I am each time atingle, more eager than I want people to know.

Before long my father and I discovered our common ground, and spent silent, blissful hours browsing in the local bookshop. Then, with new books tucked under our arms, we walked home together. I liked to look at him and did my best with giant steps and little, awkward skips to match his long, oblivious strides. If he chanced to glance down at me he’d sometimes smile and in those moments I nearly drowned in such almighty happiness and gratitude and love that the only commensurate thing I could think to do was to lie down on the pavement, there at my father’s feet, and offer him my entire mortal being; but of course I didn’t do that, or speak of these feelings, since they would surely have been as far beyond his comprehension as they were mine. So I scampered mutely by his side.

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