Love is subjective, and I am 30 years old, of course there will be books I once loved but no longer don’t. There are books that I loved because they spoke to the 5 year old me, or the 15 year old me, that don’t speak to me in the same way now. I might still love them to a certain degree but I think that love is mostly nostalgia. A love that exist because I on a level yearn for that time in my life (not so much for 15 but certainly for 5).
There were books I loved at 15 that spoke to me because they were slightly forbidden (I am sure you can all guess the type of books ).
The books I loved at 5 are books I now love giving to the little children in my life and that I might pick up for a few minutes escapism.
Both these categories of books are in their own way to precious for me to say that I don’t like them anymore. In their own way they shaped who I am today and I want to cherish them in my heart as such. They are dog eared, chewed on (by me, my siblings and now my niece), they have lost their covers from to much reading. All these books bear the unmistakable signs of being well loved, and despite not being loved now I do on some level still love them.