“This is not a review, but my own special tribute to the woman who made my day one summer afternoon.
Madeleine L'Engle died last week. She was 88.
I just learned of her death early this morning, and I could not believe it. Why was it not posted on the breaking news of that day? The top news sites? Why was it relegated to the lifestyle section of newspapers? Her death should have rocked the literary world, same as it rocked my own little world. I am devastated, to say the least. She had written my most favorite book of all, even some twenty years later after I first read it. No amount of Rowling, Hinton, Pratchett, Christie, or Grimes could take that title away from her. Sure I loved Harry Potter, devoured Jury's and Poirot's exploits, cried with Ponyboy, and laughed at Rincewind. But it was Meg Murry who captured my heart one summer day – who made me WANT to read from that point on. And I have Ms L'Engle to thank for it.
Children today have Ms Rowling to thank for it. I had my Ms L'Engle.
I was around ten or eleven years old. I was not yet in high school when I decided, out of sheer boredom, to ransack the dusty, musty library shelves in the basement of our home. My whole family were avid readers of so many literary genres, from my mother's cookbooks, my father's crime and espionage books, my sisters' classic literature and young adult fiction, and my brother's sports publications. It was a goldmine for book reports down there, and because I had not yet been given book report assignments in school, I had no reason to just read something that was out of my league. I have not yet taken the English classes to support the level of understanding that seemed to be required in order to tackle and appreciate the books that we have in the house. But I tried anyway. And my summer – my life – was magically changed. I read so many books that time, but only a few of them stuck out for me as the best reading experiences of my life. And "A Wrinkle In Time" was the best of them all.
And I almost did not read it. The cover was spooky enough to scare me off (it is no longer in print). And I had just tried to read "Jaws" before that, but couldn't because I was too terrified of the first chapter, and I realized that the book's cover was all about the first chapter, and that made me drop the book and… Well, to me, sometimes, the cover is everything. And our copy of "A Wrinkle In Time" did not do justice to its claim as a children's novel.
Yet I turned the front cover, and I was surprised to see inside a small note taped to the front flap. It was my oldest sister's gift to my brother, some years earlier. It was sweet and nice. And because I worshipped my sister that way, and thought her to have impeccable taste in so many things, I decided to bring the book along with me to my room and have a go at it.
And I am so glad I did. I LOVE THIS BOOK IMMENSELY. I thought it had just the right amount of heart and pain and humor. It was a lot like Hinton's book, in that I understood it the first time. It may have been fantastic, but it felt very real to me, probably because it was grounded on science. I had no idea whether the science was correct, and because there was no Internet at the time, I accepted it as a fact wholeheartedly. I wonder whether, if knowing that it was all made up, it would make me like the novel any less. But I would like to think not, because the writing was beautiful, and I took to the characters very well. As a young girl myself, I thought that Meg Murry kicked all kinds of ass on this one – both human and alien. It was probably the first book I read that was tailored to my level of understanding, and yet it also felt like a grownup book. The elements of science, of Shakespeare, and the Bible, all combined to make the book feel like something out of a big library, something that a grownup would read. And yet it felt small, intimate – something that I, a ten-year old, understood. It felt like a friend to me. It had a kickass heroine – possibly the first in all my reads so far (Scout Finch felt more like a protagonist in an adult book; Meg was a heroine in a book for younger readers – that made the difference). And she was a flawed heroine, too. She was not pretty, and she felt it. She was not as smart as her brother, and was eternally anxious, and stubborn, and quick to anger. But she was loving in her own way, and I related to all her quirks. To me, she was perfect in that she was not. And I love her.
The book seemed like a combination of so many things: science fiction, fantasy, spiritual, mystery, even a bit of horror/suspense – it was, I think, the uncertainty of the extraterrestrial that scared me a bit at the time. And the myriad of publishers who had rejected Ms L'Engle's manuscript must have felt the same way. They didn't know what the book was aiming for, or who it was for. It was many things to many people. And yet I think the beauty of this book is that, in spite of being so much, it still retains the core message of family and friendship. Sometimes, it makes me wonder whether Rowling had read this book. Because "Wrinkle" and "Potter" were certainly alike in terms of the deeper theme: That of evil being overcome by a youthful hero through love. Meg's fight against the Thing on Camazotz, for the life of Charles Wallace, was the first nail-biter I ever read. It was a simple yet suspenseful scene, and you were so invested in all the characters that you feel like it would hurt you if Charles Wallace went the way of It. But it was a happy ending, and they brought Mr Murry home, and Meg fell in love with Calvin… it was such an uplifting book. For the first time, the hero/heroine was not the handsome/pretty strong/athletic one. It was plain Meg. The Murry twins, all that heroes should be, were excluded from the adventure (although they would have their own in time). I thought it was just right that, although they were had their way in school, it was Meg who earned the glory in life.
I remember finishing it, closing the book and looking skyward. I felt like I just ran a great distance. It was such a thrill to read it that I read it again. I could not let it go for a while, and eventually, unknown to my brother (who technically owns it) and sister (who bought it for him), I kept it along with the other books I wanted to bring with me to my very own personal library (which is still being planned). And whenever people ask me what my favorite book was, it will always be "A Wrinkle In Time". No matter how much I love Harry Potter, or Melrose Plant, or Ponyboy Curtis, or Hercule Poirot, or any of Hornby's or Pratchett's characters, I will always ALWAYS hark back to that beautiful summer when I read L'Engle.
The cover no longer scares me. And I sometimes find myself believing in tesseracts, and desiring someone like Aunt Beast. And even wishing to find my own Calvin O'Keefe. I wanted to immortalize Meg Murry in my mind, in the same way that other girls do Nancy Drew or the Wakefield twins, or Hermione Granger. Sometimes I am miffed that people do not know who she is, or the book, or who Ms L'Engle is. And now she is dead, and children of this generation and the next might never know who they lost. The adventure is over. I felt like I had lost a dear voice in my head.
I feel guilty of leaving Ms L'Engle out as I devoured Rowling books over the recent years. I admit that the popularity of Harry Potter has sidelined this book, but I am certainly proud and sure that I never forgot about “Wrinkle”. It pops into my mind at the weirdest times, and it always makes me smile when it does. Yesterday, I went into a Borders store to buy a magazine when I stumbled upon a display of books under the sign "Banned Books". It had "A Wrinkle In Time" on it, and I had no idea it came under such scrutiny and fire, that it enjoyed notoriety at the time. And looking back, it was understandable, given the adult themes of science, of loss, and of the always-controversial inclusion of religion in the book. But my morals and character was never compromised just by reading the book. In fact, I became a better reader for it. I loved the way it never talked down to children. And this is why it felt real to me, to us. It did not sugarcoat the disappearance of Mr Murry, of the ostracized feelings Meg felt at school and even at home, of the seemingly insurmountable odds that Meg faced on Camazotz. It was real, and it was dark, and it was scary – heck, it's cover was scary! – and yet, it had all these big scientific words that children GET. I love what she said in an interview: "… that children’s literature is literature too difficult for adults to understand." How true, and how unfortunate.
It was the precursor to the Harry Potter controversy, and I will say it again: it will never work to dictate what children can or cannot read. We may leave it up to parents to tell them what to read, but it will never work to publicly scorn it, especially if its critics have not even read it. The book is about love, first and foremost – that of the highest kind. And it triumphs over evil. What could be more wonderful than that? It will be someone's loss not to read it, and banning it will never be right. As Ms L'Engle said, it is often the kind of literature that is too difficult for adults to understand. But thank God for adults like Ms L'Engle.
I approached the store's display and thought of buying the book, on my own this time. But the cover was all whimsy and watercolors. I liked the older covers better, and the one sitting at home the best. So I decided against it. And just this morning, for no reason at all, I looked her up online. Actually, I found myself reading a blog early this morning, reading through the writer's thoughts about Owen Wilson, when I spied a small link to one side of the page about Ms L'Engle. Curious, I clicked on it, and, when the page loaded fully, I found out she had died.
I was so shocked, and saddened, and confused, and angry. Why was this not on the news headlines on the bigger websites? Or maybe it was, and I just did not see it. I felt even more guilty and sad about it. She deserves more than the tribute that has been written about her so far. A two-page article in the New York Times? A small picture on the side? I would have gathered a lot of penned tributes for her if I could.
It saddened me even more to learn how close I had been living to her all this time. She died in a home in Connecticut. And for 30 years, she had been librarian at St. John the Divine in New York. I don't know if she had been there while I was there sometimes, but if she was, I was unfortunate to have missed meeting her. And now she is dead. And the world will never know what other adventures the Murrys might have. I felt like my Meg Murry had died along with her. Some may say that the written word lives on, on the page and in the hearts and minds of readers. But you know, sometimes? It is nice to know that some people, even the fictional, are eternal. And Ms L’Engle’s death just reminded me that Meg Murry is too connected to her, that her death… means that Meg has passed on as well. I will never know what Meg is up to anymore. And I will miss her dearly.
I end this entry with the words of the author herself: "In my dreams, I never have an age," she said. "I never write for any age group in mind. ... When you underestimate your audience, you're cutting yourself off from your best work."
So long, Ms L'Engle. And thank you.”
