When Merry finished A Wrinkle in Time the other night, I realized I'd need to read it again if I were to discuss it intelligently with her. I remembered parts of the book (in particular, I remember a vague feeling that I should memorize a great deal more than I had in high school if I were to ever battle a giant, disembodied, evil Brain), but the rest was fuzzy.

So last night I stayed up half the night and read Madeline L'Engle's classic again. I was so spooked by IT and its control of Meg's little brother that, at midnight, when I moved my reading upstairs to bed, I couldn't bring myself to drop off my tea cup in a dark, lonely kitchen. I left it on the hall table and dashed up to bed where I finished the book in peace, switched off the light, and marvelled at L'Engle's brilliance.

Reading the book as an adult and as a writer was interesting; I was caught up in the narrative but I was detached enough to think, when the star's song is taken straight from the Psalms, "That was risky. I wouldn't have tried that. . ." and wonder at the sheer intelligence of the writing, how Mrs. Who pulled quotes seemingly out of thin air and how L'Engle mesmerized us with math. . . .and how the book, when studied in little pieces, was not as brilliant as the whole, which shimmers with the qualities of true Myth.

I can't give too much away, because Martin (gasp) has never read it. I'm switching books with him as soon as he finishes rereading "Asher Lev" which I'm sure I must have read in my Potok phase but can't remember. (Did I ever tell you I read Vanity Fair twice, and the second time didn't realize it was a reread until I was almost half-way through?)

If you haven't read L'Engle in a while, I highly recommend a revisit--wonderful stuff for midwinter days. And a reminder, too, of what is real, what is worth pursuing--and fighting for--in life and art.