I first saw Madeleine L’Engle’s “A Wrinkle in Time” on my favorite cousin’s desk when I was ten or so, displayed resplendently along side a few of her other books. I picked it up a few times but never did finish reading it; seemed like there were just too many books and so little time to read them all.
There’s not a lot to be said about the book.
It’s a bit like some sort of Doctor Who primer, with all the requisite science mumbo jumbo and dimensions and time and space. Reading about their complicated “tessering” (some sort of jump through a “wrinkle” in time and space that allowed them to travel to different planets and universes in record time), I couldn’t help but think that having a TARDIS would have sorted their problem out in no time.
Beyond the science stuff that I could barely wrap my head around (and this is a bloody children’s book — I am quite certain now that I actually failed the science part of NSAT), the book is a very interesting coming of age tale.
Meg Murry is as immature as they come, completely insecure and IRRITATING in the most capital letters imaginable. At this point, however, I can’t help but wonder how beautiful it would have been if I’d read this book when I was actually a kid, back when I knew what it was like to rely on someone else. I’ve gone past that.
I know that people are fallible, that there really is no one for me to lean on, that to get things done I have to do them myself.
I think I was going for “mature” but overshot to “jaded”.
Despite my inability to sympathize with Meg, I do find her blossoming love affair with damaged-but-hot Calvin O’Keefe incredibly sweet. The boy quotes Shakespeare and holds her hand whenever she’s afraid — definitely a keeper.
Four more books in the series. Let’s see if they can depress me more than the first one did.