As a child, I greatly enjoyed fantasy fiction. Dragons, witches, elves, sorcerers, vampires (before Twilight gave those a teen angst transfusion), werewolves, magic swords, ancient curses, were all great fun. (I wasn’t sure about the gnomes – dangerously curious – but who wouldn’t love the hobbits?) The movie Willow was the sort of adventure I enjoyed. Dungeons and Dragons was where I learned social interactions. (Sad, perhaps, but common enough.) Of course wiser heads than mine ensured I could distinguish between make-believe and reality, and I never thought such fantasies were real.
The standard story, duly educated into me, was that people used to believe in witches, dragons, alchemy, demons, etc., but the Enlightenment and modern science had shown that there were no such things. The world revealed by science was sometimes bizarre, certainly (not only quarks are strange), but it bore no resemblance to such legends and medieval superstitions. “Everyone knows,” I well knew, that “there’s no such thing” as a dragon.