# Read 1992-1996
September 24, 1993—my birthday—was already a day that carried a sense of anticipation and significance, not just for me personally but also for the world. That year, history quietly marked a major milestone: the restoration of the Cambodian monarchy, with Norodom Sihanouk returning as king.
While the news fascinated adults around me, my own attention was drawn to a smaller, more personal event: my mother handed me a neatly wrapped package, and inside lay my next Tintin adventure—Tintin #7: The Black Island by Hergé.
Receiving this comic on my birthday felt like the perfect intersection of celebration and discovery. I was just beginning to understand that birthdays are not just about cakes and wishes but about moments that shape memory.
Holding the book in my hands, the cover bold with its depiction of Tintin and Snowy confronting danger, I felt the same thrill that had gripped me when I first read Cigars of the Pharaoh and The Broken Ear. Each gift from my parents was more than an object; it was an invitation to explore, to imagine, and to participate in a universe where adventure was immediate and tangible.
The Black Island starts with Tintin’s journey to investigate the mysterious disappearance of a plane and the trail of a dangerous gang connected to a secluded island. The story immediately immerses the reader in a sense of peril and intrigue. Hergé’s artistry is, as always, meticulous: the architecture, landscapes, and action sequences are rendered with precision, yet the pacing never falters.
From the bustling streets of Scotland to the hidden caverns of the island itself, every panel is a careful orchestration of suspense and narrative clarity. As a young reader, I was enthralled by the way Hergé could make danger both immediate and comprehensible, a world where the improbable becomes thrillingly believable.
What captivated me most was the tension between the known and the unknown. Tintin moves through this story as both observer and participant, piecing together clues, deducing the villain’s schemes, and navigating threats that could have been lethal.
Snowy, loyal as ever, provides humour, insight, and occasional heroism, while Captain Haddock’s boisterous presence adds levity and human unpredictability. Even in a perilous moment, Haddock’s temper and exclamations are a comic anchor, reminding the reader that courage is rarely devoid of personality.
Reading The Black Island on my birthday added an extra layer of significance. The story’s themes of mystery, investigation, and courage resonated with my own small milestones that day: growing a year older, learning to navigate school responsibilities, and understanding that new experiences—like Tintin’s adventures—often carry lessons in observation, patience, and ingenuity. Hergé’s world, though fictional, felt alive, and for a child, it offered a rare kind of companionship.
Tintin, Snowy, and Haddock became guides to a world larger and stranger than my immediate surroundings, full of hidden dangers and moral clarity.
Looking back, the gift was formative. It cemented my love for serialised adventures, teaching me to appreciate structure, suspense, and character development in storytelling. More subtly, it connected me to a tradition of European comics that explored culture, geography, and ethics through thrilling narratives.
I could see how Hergé’s influence would ripple through my reading choices, from other Tintin books to detective stories and adventure novels that valued cleverness, courage, and curiosity.
Even now, I recall that birthday vividly: the excitement of unwrapping The Black Island, the quiet awe as I flipped through the pages, and the feeling that, for a few hours, I was no longer just a child in my hometown—I was Tintin, navigating shadows, discovering secrets, and confronting danger with intelligence and heart.
That day, the gift of a comic became an enduring memory, one that reminds me how stories can shape the way we perceive adventure, heroism, and our own capacity for curiosity.