My mom tells me that she once heard me, at the age of about four or five, grumbling. Nothing surprising about that, perhaps. :-) But I was apparently hiding under the dining room table (a favorite place of mine) and what she overheard was a complaining prayer: "Jesus, everybody's bein' mean to me!"
I chuckle about that now, but sometimes I feel a little bit in awe of my preschool age self who didn't hesitate to go to God with a grumbling complaint, even a self-centered one. It not only speaks of an early trust and intimacy (that God was real, that he was listening and that he cared) but I think it teaches me anew that sometimes it's important to get those "dining room table prayers" prayed, even though they're not always the most eloquent prayers. I think of it almost every time I get to Madeleine's word about prayer on p. 24 of WoW:
"Before I can listen to God in prayer, I must fumble through the prayers of words, of willful demands, the prayers of childish 'Gimmes,' of 'Help mes,' of 'I want...' Until I tell God what I want, I have no way of knowing whether or not I truly want it. Unless I ask God for something, I do not know whether or not it is something for which I ought to ask, and I cannot add, 'But if this is not your will for me, then your will is what I want, not mine.' The prayers of words cannot be eliminated. And I must pray them daily, whether I feel like praying or not. Otherwise, when God has something to say to me, I will not know how to listen. Until I have worked through self, I will not be enabled to get out of the way."
Such wise advice. I haven't always followed it, but whenever I read it, I find myself realizing that I should. I need to remember to pray those dining room table prayers, those prayers of a childish heart, knowing and trusting that God wants to meet me there, he hears them, and he wants me to pray them. And that in praying them, I not only grow closer to him, but I work through my own "stuff" (from more selfish needs to real, practical needs on down) and get to a place where I am cleared out and in a better place to listen. I am really thankful to know that God doesn't look down on our "childish" prayers, and that he understands that we need words (our own and others) like a lifeline sometimes, even if they're inadequate in the end to convey our deepest heart's desires or our purest praise. Maybe when we run out of words or get to the end of them, we value the depths of silence more.
And of course, Madeleine also says that writing, like prayer, is discipline... something we should do every day if we're to faithfully serve and faithfully use the gift we've been given. More food for thought...
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Monday, October 13, 2008
"A Box Marked Children Only"
Reading along in Walking on Water the other day, I was struck anew by this paragraph:
"The artist, if he is not to forget how to listen, must retain the vision which includes angels and dragons and unicorns, and all the lovely creatures which our world would put in a box marked Children Only."
What else goes into that box on a regular basis, I wonder? It seems like we're okay with writing beautiful stories and stories of wonder for children, but for adults we think it all has to be pragmatic and "realistic." I put that last in quotes because I think what Madeleine is reminding of us here is that we need to broaden our vision of what's real to include things that are unseen or only usually talked about in the realm of imagination.
And there's the connection between listening and vision again...which we talked about in the earlier post.
"The artist, if he is not to forget how to listen, must retain the vision which includes angels and dragons and unicorns, and all the lovely creatures which our world would put in a box marked Children Only."
What else goes into that box on a regular basis, I wonder? It seems like we're okay with writing beautiful stories and stories of wonder for children, but for adults we think it all has to be pragmatic and "realistic." I put that last in quotes because I think what Madeleine is reminding of us here is that we need to broaden our vision of what's real to include things that are unseen or only usually talked about in the realm of imagination.
And there's the connection between listening and vision again...which we talked about in the earlier post.
Words...
It comes as no surprise to me that such an accomplished writer as L'Engle should have strong opinions when it comes to the variety of words available to authors. "We cannot Name or be Named without language," she says. Even more emphatically: "I might even go to the extreme of declaring that the deliberate diminution of vocabulary by a dictator, or an advertising copywriter, is anti-Christian." (37)
I find it interesting that she expresses such a strong preference for picking up vocabulary from context rather than stopping to look words up - rather the way she mentions that she never tries to jot down her dreams in the middle of the night. It jerks her away from the immediacy. I generally find that I don't stop to look words up either - unless I'm reading something online and find I just have to dash off to dictionary.com to find out what that word means. More often, though, I just absorb words and find myself using them.
Reading this section got me thinking about vocabulary, and I started jotting down some of the more colorful words sprinkled throughout the book. Just writing them is reinforcement, looking them up moreso. Here are a few...
divertissement, interstices, pellucid, salutary, piosity, temerity, vagaries, vicissitudes, castigating, salvific, indigents, licensiousness, ousia...
And the one that really made me sit up and take notice: pusillanimous (contemptibly fearful). Now there's a mouthful!
I find it interesting that she expresses such a strong preference for picking up vocabulary from context rather than stopping to look words up - rather the way she mentions that she never tries to jot down her dreams in the middle of the night. It jerks her away from the immediacy. I generally find that I don't stop to look words up either - unless I'm reading something online and find I just have to dash off to dictionary.com to find out what that word means. More often, though, I just absorb words and find myself using them.
Reading this section got me thinking about vocabulary, and I started jotting down some of the more colorful words sprinkled throughout the book. Just writing them is reinforcement, looking them up moreso. Here are a few...
divertissement, interstices, pellucid, salutary, piosity, temerity, vagaries, vicissitudes, castigating, salvific, indigents, licensiousness, ousia...
And the one that really made me sit up and take notice: pusillanimous (contemptibly fearful). Now there's a mouthful!
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Doing Nothing
I really like this:
"I've long since stopped feeling guilty about taking being time; it's something we all need for our spiritual health, and often we don't take enough of it." (2)
It reminds me of Christopher Robin's conversation with Winnie the Pooh at the end of House at Pooh Corner:
"What I like doing best is Nothing."
"How do you do Nothing?" asked Pooh, after he had wondered for a long time.
"Well, it's when people call out at you just as you're going off to do it 'What are you going to do, Christopher Robin?' and you say 'Oh, nothing,' and then you go and do it."
"Oh, I see," said Pooh.
"This is a nothing sort of thing that we're doing now."
"Oh, I see," said Pooh again.
"It means just going along, listening to all the things you can't hear, and not bothering."
Just as Christopher Robin later bemoans the fact that he won't be able to do Nothing nearly so much anymore because of the grown-up expectations about to be placed upon him, L'Engle mourns the frequent loss of a sense of childlike joy and wonder. Pooh is a master of doing Nothing, yet he is also the most artistic of the inhabitants of the Hundred-Acre Wood. His "poohetry" stems from his willingness to quietly go along, enjoying the world around him. He doesn't stress out about being productive; it's an organic process.
I sometimes find it hard to take the time to "do Nothing"; I always seem to feel the pressure of time even when I don't have any particular deadlines - one bother that plush Pooh is immune to! But doing Nothing is a very worthwhile exercise, especially if it's of the outdoor variety on a beautiful day like today. Of course, it never hurts to have a pencil and notepad in hand just in case Nothing yields Something...
"I've long since stopped feeling guilty about taking being time; it's something we all need for our spiritual health, and often we don't take enough of it." (2)
It reminds me of Christopher Robin's conversation with Winnie the Pooh at the end of House at Pooh Corner:
"What I like doing best is Nothing."
"How do you do Nothing?" asked Pooh, after he had wondered for a long time.
"Well, it's when people call out at you just as you're going off to do it 'What are you going to do, Christopher Robin?' and you say 'Oh, nothing,' and then you go and do it."
"Oh, I see," said Pooh.
"This is a nothing sort of thing that we're doing now."
"Oh, I see," said Pooh again.
"It means just going along, listening to all the things you can't hear, and not bothering."
Just as Christopher Robin later bemoans the fact that he won't be able to do Nothing nearly so much anymore because of the grown-up expectations about to be placed upon him, L'Engle mourns the frequent loss of a sense of childlike joy and wonder. Pooh is a master of doing Nothing, yet he is also the most artistic of the inhabitants of the Hundred-Acre Wood. His "poohetry" stems from his willingness to quietly go along, enjoying the world around him. He doesn't stress out about being productive; it's an organic process.
I sometimes find it hard to take the time to "do Nothing"; I always seem to feel the pressure of time even when I don't have any particular deadlines - one bother that plush Pooh is immune to! But doing Nothing is a very worthwhile exercise, especially if it's of the outdoor variety on a beautiful day like today. Of course, it never hurts to have a pencil and notepad in hand just in case Nothing yields Something...
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Writing on a Deadline
I can relate so well to the frustration Christian singer-songwriter Nichole Nordeman describes in the Foreward; not sure if it's in your edition or not, but she talks about being forced to write at a time when she was incredibly uninspired and this book making the difference in getting her real creative juices flowing again.
Deadlines have always stressed me out. Then again, they've also kept me going. I always seem to manage when it's an essay for school or a certain number of reviews or a newspaper article, though I do a fair bit of fretting. But writing stories, poems and that kind of thing gives me a lot more trouble, and if it's a self-imposed deadline, chances are I just let it slide, since I can't seem to stick with it, especially if it's one long project, such as a novel, rather than a collection of several short projects, like my self-imposed parody challenge. I finished that, but I've got a book I started wriitng about five years ago that's nowhere near completion. It's got a few chapters but no sense of direction, and I've been totally stalled on it for a year or two.
What do you do to defeat writer's block? At what point do you decide that a particular project just isn't going anywhere? And do you find you write more effectively when a deadline is imposed upon you by others or when you set your own? I'm really ready to tackle some poetry and fiction again. Hopefully Walking on Water will help me to get my juices flowing too!
Deadlines have always stressed me out. Then again, they've also kept me going. I always seem to manage when it's an essay for school or a certain number of reviews or a newspaper article, though I do a fair bit of fretting. But writing stories, poems and that kind of thing gives me a lot more trouble, and if it's a self-imposed deadline, chances are I just let it slide, since I can't seem to stick with it, especially if it's one long project, such as a novel, rather than a collection of several short projects, like my self-imposed parody challenge. I finished that, but I've got a book I started wriitng about five years ago that's nowhere near completion. It's got a few chapters but no sense of direction, and I've been totally stalled on it for a year or two.
What do you do to defeat writer's block? At what point do you decide that a particular project just isn't going anywhere? And do you find you write more effectively when a deadline is imposed upon you by others or when you set your own? I'm really ready to tackle some poetry and fiction again. Hopefully Walking on Water will help me to get my juices flowing too!
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Walking on Water: First Thoughts
Well, we've not gotten very far with this blog so far. :-) I still can't believe summer is over and gone...and September seems to be galloping by at an alarming rate too!
I'm glad we've decided to read Walking on Water next. It's long been one of my very favorite of Madeleine's books, and one of my favorite books on faith and creativity period.
I just started re-reading the other day. I'm only a few pages in, but I keep pausing and smiling because I have so very many favorite quotes. Not just quotes by Madeleine herself either. I was realizing how many other quotes and poems she introduced me to. I read this book for the first time in 1987 and I'm pretty sure it was my introduction to Coleridge's "willing suspension of belief," for instance. I know it was also the first place I'd ever read e.e. cumming's wonderful poem beginning "i who have died am alive again today..."
But some of the things Madeleine herself said were very important to me the first time I ever read them, and have remained so. They've sort of embedded themselves in my heart and mind and become touchstones for me as I try to continue to live out a writing life, one that is connected (I hope deeply) to my living out of my faith.
One of those important quotes comes on p. 18 (of my 1980 edition published by Shaw) when Madeleine writes:
"Obedience is an unpopular word nowadays, but the artist must be obedient to the work, whether it be a symphony, a painting, or a story for a small child. I believe that each work of art, whether it is a work of great genius, or something very small, comes to the artist and says 'Here I am. Enflesh me. Give birth to me.' And the artist either says, 'My soul doth magnify the Lord,' and willingly becomes the bearer of the work, or refuses; but the obedient response is not necessarily a conscious one, and not everyone has the humble, courageous obedience of Mary."
To "willingly become the bearer of the work." That has been a ribbon I've carried from this book for a long time. To obediently respond to God's call on our lives...any call, but specifically here, the creative call. To write a story or craft a poem not just for fun (though it can be delightful) and not primarily to serve myself or my own purposes, but because the work presents itself as something that needs to be written. It feels grandiose to say that God calls us to create/write whatever that work is, and to do it lovingly and well, but I think at the deepest level, that's what Madeleine is saying here. It feels very freeing to me that she sees this as a fundamental truth underlying ALL creative work, not just inspired works of clear genius.
I've absorbed this thought for such a long time that I think it effects the way I look at certain works of art. If they're made well and lovingly, crafted carefully, then I think the author has borne the work well....
I seem to be rambling, but it's late and I'm tired. And I've already been interrupted once by a power outage...we're getting some high winds out there tonight! So I'll just leave this with one more thought/question: if artists/writers are birth-givers, can we stretch the metaphor to say those that teach, mentor and encourage other artists/writers are midwives?
I'm glad we've decided to read Walking on Water next. It's long been one of my very favorite of Madeleine's books, and one of my favorite books on faith and creativity period.
I just started re-reading the other day. I'm only a few pages in, but I keep pausing and smiling because I have so very many favorite quotes. Not just quotes by Madeleine herself either. I was realizing how many other quotes and poems she introduced me to. I read this book for the first time in 1987 and I'm pretty sure it was my introduction to Coleridge's "willing suspension of belief," for instance. I know it was also the first place I'd ever read e.e. cumming's wonderful poem beginning "i who have died am alive again today..."
But some of the things Madeleine herself said were very important to me the first time I ever read them, and have remained so. They've sort of embedded themselves in my heart and mind and become touchstones for me as I try to continue to live out a writing life, one that is connected (I hope deeply) to my living out of my faith.
One of those important quotes comes on p. 18 (of my 1980 edition published by Shaw) when Madeleine writes:
"Obedience is an unpopular word nowadays, but the artist must be obedient to the work, whether it be a symphony, a painting, or a story for a small child. I believe that each work of art, whether it is a work of great genius, or something very small, comes to the artist and says 'Here I am. Enflesh me. Give birth to me.' And the artist either says, 'My soul doth magnify the Lord,' and willingly becomes the bearer of the work, or refuses; but the obedient response is not necessarily a conscious one, and not everyone has the humble, courageous obedience of Mary."
To "willingly become the bearer of the work." That has been a ribbon I've carried from this book for a long time. To obediently respond to God's call on our lives...any call, but specifically here, the creative call. To write a story or craft a poem not just for fun (though it can be delightful) and not primarily to serve myself or my own purposes, but because the work presents itself as something that needs to be written. It feels grandiose to say that God calls us to create/write whatever that work is, and to do it lovingly and well, but I think at the deepest level, that's what Madeleine is saying here. It feels very freeing to me that she sees this as a fundamental truth underlying ALL creative work, not just inspired works of clear genius.
I've absorbed this thought for such a long time that I think it effects the way I look at certain works of art. If they're made well and lovingly, crafted carefully, then I think the author has borne the work well....
I seem to be rambling, but it's late and I'm tired. And I've already been interrupted once by a power outage...we're getting some high winds out there tonight! So I'll just leave this with one more thought/question: if artists/writers are birth-givers, can we stretch the metaphor to say those that teach, mentor and encourage other artists/writers are midwives?
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
The Importance of Naming
One of my favorite themes in A Wind in the Door is a theme that Madeleine brings up repeatedly in many of her books, both fiction and non-fiction. That's the importance of naming, of knowing and calling someone by their true name. Madeleine believes (and partly because I heard her say it so many times and in so many ways, I've come to believe it deeply too) that our names truly matter, and that naming someone is a true gift.
I think she means that in ways both big and small: using someone's name when you speak or write to them can make them feel heard of listened to; offering someone your name when you first meet is a gift (and receiving their name a reciprocal gift); but "naming" also takes on deeper connotations for her. The ability to name someone, as Meg named Mr. Jenkins in the story, is to let them know that you know who they are on a deep heart level, that you've recognized their uniqueness, or something about what makes them truly themselves, flaws, gifts and all. Naming in Wind also has a lot to do, I think, with calling forth the gifts of someone, helping them to realize their own strengths and calling even when they don't necessarily feel they are strong or capable of a certain task. So "naming" and "loving" (with all the corollaries of strengthening and encouraging) become synonymous for Madeleine.
I remember many years ago when the Bonastra group (a L'Engle listserve I joined about eleven years ago) was more active. We had a huge and very fruitful discussion about the importance of naming, both in Madeleine's books and in our own lives. I wish I could recall more of the discussion or had saved it somewhere (I wonder if it might be available in the site's archives?). I do remember one of the things we talked about was whether or not we felt strongly about our given birth names or other important names from our lives (nicknames, terms of endearment)...if we felt those names really represented who we are.
So how do you feel about your name(s?)
I think she means that in ways both big and small: using someone's name when you speak or write to them can make them feel heard of listened to; offering someone your name when you first meet is a gift (and receiving their name a reciprocal gift); but "naming" also takes on deeper connotations for her. The ability to name someone, as Meg named Mr. Jenkins in the story, is to let them know that you know who they are on a deep heart level, that you've recognized their uniqueness, or something about what makes them truly themselves, flaws, gifts and all. Naming in Wind also has a lot to do, I think, with calling forth the gifts of someone, helping them to realize their own strengths and calling even when they don't necessarily feel they are strong or capable of a certain task. So "naming" and "loving" (with all the corollaries of strengthening and encouraging) become synonymous for Madeleine.
I remember many years ago when the Bonastra group (a L'Engle listserve I joined about eleven years ago) was more active. We had a huge and very fruitful discussion about the importance of naming, both in Madeleine's books and in our own lives. I wish I could recall more of the discussion or had saved it somewhere (I wonder if it might be available in the site's archives?). I do remember one of the things we talked about was whether or not we felt strongly about our given birth names or other important names from our lives (nicknames, terms of endearment)...if we felt those names really represented who we are.
So how do you feel about your name(s?)
Angels and Snakes
I just remembered this little post that I started a long time ago... One thing that's interesting about A Wind in the Door is the way L'Engle incorporates both angels and snakes. Proginoskes doesn't look anything remotely like most poeple would imagine an angel looking. Art really has a way of cementing certain images in people's minds. The image of the cherubim with many eyes and flames, dragon-like as Charles Wallace observed, has a Biblical precedent but everybody always thinks of the paintings of winged humans...
I like the fact that the snake is a force for good rather than evil. Snakes have had a pretty bad reputation all through history, so it's nice to see something postive about them once in a while. Both seem to relate to not judging things based on their appearance, but looking deeper to discover that just because something looks scary, it doesn't mean it's necessarily bad.
I like the fact that the snake is a force for good rather than evil. Snakes have had a pretty bad reputation all through history, so it's nice to see something postive about them once in a while. Both seem to relate to not judging things based on their appearance, but looking deeper to discover that just because something looks scary, it doesn't mean it's necessarily bad.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Love Your Enemies
I love this command, and it's certainly something I try to live up to - though in all honesty, I'm pretty lucky and haven't really had to deal with people antagonizing me in quite a long time. The scene in which Meg saves Charles Wallace with her love is very powerful; her Naming Mr. Jenkins is just as moving. Meg is such a spirited, opinionated girl, and the bland, authoritarian Mr. Jenkins has been a source of great distress and disappointment to her, not least because he could be a strong advocate if he had the inclination. In her everyday life, it wouldn't be much of a stretch to call him her greatest nemesis, and it's not wonder she struggles with her assignment to Name him. But love triumphs over hatred, and he turns out to be incredibly important in the quest to cure Charles Wallace and demonstrates that underneath all that bureaucracy, he really does care about his students.
He reminds me a lot of Katherine Brooke, the stodgy administrator Anne Shirley wins over in Anne of Windy Poplars, showing her how to really live again. I don't suppose Meg expected too much of Mr. Jenkins when she Named him at the school, but because she opened herself to the seed of goodness within this incredibly frustrating character, she was able to watch him blossom into a truly beautiful person. What a wonderful illustration of the healing power of compassion...
He reminds me a lot of Katherine Brooke, the stodgy administrator Anne Shirley wins over in Anne of Windy Poplars, showing her how to really live again. I don't suppose Meg expected too much of Mr. Jenkins when she Named him at the school, but because she opened herself to the seed of goodness within this incredibly frustrating character, she was able to watch him blossom into a truly beautiful person. What a wonderful illustration of the healing power of compassion...
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Getting Fond
One of my favorite lines in A Wrinkle in Time comes from the Happy Medium, who says, in the chapter bearing her name, "It's my worst trouble, getting fond. If I didn't get fond I could be happy all the time." It is a problem, isn't it? As soon as we become attached to someone, we set ourselves up for pain: the pain of empathy and of loss. The Buddhist take on this is that we should strive to remain unattached, to either people or things, because it will hinder our serenity. Perhaps, and sometimes I'm tempted to keep to myself as much as possible for this very reason. But think of the depths of joy we'd be missing out on if we refused to connect with other people.
It reminds me of the theme songs of Rankin and Bass's versions of The Hobbit and The Return of the King, especially the latter, which poses the question, "What good is it to love when the loving always ends?" and notes, "If you never say hello, you won't have to say goodbye." Obviously, Frodo is not controlled by such thoughts. He agrees to take the Ring all the way to Mordor out of love for his friends and for the entire population of the Shire, even those he doesn't know. He has gotten fond, and therefore he puts himself into great danger. And he is a hero to emulate.
Meg returns to the oppressive Camazotz for Charles Wallace because she loves him. Mrs. Whatzit gives up her life as a star because she loves what is good and right in the universe. Love drives so many brave actions in this novel and so many others. Getting fond. It may not be the easiest way to live. But it must be the most fulfilling.
It reminds me of the theme songs of Rankin and Bass's versions of The Hobbit and The Return of the King, especially the latter, which poses the question, "What good is it to love when the loving always ends?" and notes, "If you never say hello, you won't have to say goodbye." Obviously, Frodo is not controlled by such thoughts. He agrees to take the Ring all the way to Mordor out of love for his friends and for the entire population of the Shire, even those he doesn't know. He has gotten fond, and therefore he puts himself into great danger. And he is a hero to emulate.
Meg returns to the oppressive Camazotz for Charles Wallace because she loves him. Mrs. Whatzit gives up her life as a star because she loves what is good and right in the universe. Love drives so many brave actions in this novel and so many others. Getting fond. It may not be the easiest way to live. But it must be the most fulfilling.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Favorite Moments
I keep having good intentions about posting here...but days keep slipping by! At one point, a couple of weeks ago I had mentally composed at least the beginning of a couple of posts, but those seem to have slipped out of my tired brain. So I'll fore-go profundity and just share some of my favorite moments from WiT.
There are many favorite moments in this book, from the opening when Madeleine trots out that old warhorse of a first line "It was a dark and stormy night..." and then really does something creative with it. I still feel thrilled whenever Mrs Whatsit shows up, caught in a downdraft and blown off course. I think she's definitely my favorite of the Mrs W's, though they're all wonderful in their own ways. I especially enjoy their interaction -- one of the best lighthearted moments for me comes when Mrs Which accidentally tries to tesser them onto a two-dimensional planet, sending the "younger" two into gales of giggles.
But the deeper moments in this book are worth pondering too. The one that struck me deepest as a kid, and still resonates with me, is the moment when Meg realizes she has to be the one to go back to Camazotz to rescue Charles Wallace. I love how she moves from despair and frustration and near-hysteria to real peace about that. There's a quality of Frodo's "I will take the ring" there...acceptance and courage from a very small, limited creature facing impossible odds. I also always loved how Mrs Whatsit so patiently and creatively explained things to Calvin, via the sonnet metaphor. Our lives are like a "strict form, but freedom within it" -- I still love that line.
Many, many more moments I could write about...but I need to finish making dinner. What are some of your favorites?
There are many favorite moments in this book, from the opening when Madeleine trots out that old warhorse of a first line "It was a dark and stormy night..." and then really does something creative with it. I still feel thrilled whenever Mrs Whatsit shows up, caught in a downdraft and blown off course. I think she's definitely my favorite of the Mrs W's, though they're all wonderful in their own ways. I especially enjoy their interaction -- one of the best lighthearted moments for me comes when Mrs Which accidentally tries to tesser them onto a two-dimensional planet, sending the "younger" two into gales of giggles.
But the deeper moments in this book are worth pondering too. The one that struck me deepest as a kid, and still resonates with me, is the moment when Meg realizes she has to be the one to go back to Camazotz to rescue Charles Wallace. I love how she moves from despair and frustration and near-hysteria to real peace about that. There's a quality of Frodo's "I will take the ring" there...acceptance and courage from a very small, limited creature facing impossible odds. I also always loved how Mrs Whatsit so patiently and creatively explained things to Calvin, via the sonnet metaphor. Our lives are like a "strict form, but freedom within it" -- I still love that line.
Many, many more moments I could write about...but I need to finish making dinner. What are some of your favorites?
Friday, April 11, 2008
Speaking In Quotes
I really like Mrs. Who's habit of speaking in famous quotations, finding that she's better able to express herself through the words of others. It gives us an opportunity to discover what words of wisdom inspired L'Engle, and to get a little crash course in some of the great thoughts of history. I also often find myself speaking in quotes, especially among people with a common reference point. Usually it's quotes from books, movies, television and songs rather than ones that are from significant figures throughout history, but in any case, there are so many to choose from, with well-ordered thoughts on just about every possible subject. I think it would be fun to try speaking like Mrs. Who for a day. It would make quite a challenge!
My all-time favorite quote is Gandalf's admonition to Bilbo at the end of The Hobbit: "You are a fine person, Mr. Baggins, and I am very fond of you; but you are only quite a little fellow in a wide world after all!" But there are so many others I carry around with me everywhere. It's a comforting thought, really, to have such a deep well of wise and funny and inspiring quotes to draw from. Standing on the shoulders of giants.
My all-time favorite quote is Gandalf's admonition to Bilbo at the end of The Hobbit: "You are a fine person, Mr. Baggins, and I am very fond of you; but you are only quite a little fellow in a wide world after all!" But there are so many others I carry around with me everywhere. It's a comforting thought, really, to have such a deep well of wise and funny and inspiring quotes to draw from. Standing on the shoulders of giants.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Meg and Charles Wallace
What I always remembered best about this book was the strength of the relationship between Meg and Charles Wallace. Glancing at the back cover, I noticed that inside, I had written in pencil 3-24-92. I presume that this is the day that I finished reading the book for the first time, 16 years almost to the day from this read. That would have made me 11 at the time and Nathan 3 and a half, so no doubt I thought of him as I read, and delving into it again, I couldn't help but compare. I've always felt especially close to my littlest brother, who is rather like Charles Wallace in terms of his skills as an artist. Just as Charles waited a long time to talk but started using complete sentences right away when he did, Nathan resisted drawing altogether until he was four or five, at which point he immediately started drawing in great detail.
I love how attuned the two are to each other. That scene in the kitchen is so great; Meg's wishing Charles Wallace would come upstairs to comfort her, and he's one step ahead of her, waiting for her to come downstairs and ready with a glass of warm milk. Throughout the book, their understanding of one another is so important, especially in the end, when Meg must use her love for her brother to crack through his trance. (I wonder if George Lucas is a fan of this book; there's a scene at the end of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom that is strikingly similar to Meg's rescue of Charles Wallace, and now that I think of it there are shades of it in Return of the Jedi as well.)
I actually had forgotten about the twins in this book, but then they don't come into the story that much. Do they show up more later in the series? Anyway, there are so many great things about A Wrinkle in Time, but my favorite aspect has to that incredible bond between Meg and her little brother.
I love how attuned the two are to each other. That scene in the kitchen is so great; Meg's wishing Charles Wallace would come upstairs to comfort her, and he's one step ahead of her, waiting for her to come downstairs and ready with a glass of warm milk. Throughout the book, their understanding of one another is so important, especially in the end, when Meg must use her love for her brother to crack through his trance. (I wonder if George Lucas is a fan of this book; there's a scene at the end of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom that is strikingly similar to Meg's rescue of Charles Wallace, and now that I think of it there are shades of it in Return of the Jedi as well.)
I actually had forgotten about the twins in this book, but then they don't come into the story that much. Do they show up more later in the series? Anyway, there are so many great things about A Wrinkle in Time, but my favorite aspect has to that incredible bond between Meg and her little brother.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Loving Something to Pieces
It's difficult for me to take A Wrinkle in Time off my shelf. No, I don't mean emotionally...though in the wake of Madeleine's passing this past fall, there was a bit of that involved too. I mean it's literally hard to take the book off my shelf because my original copy is broken in three pieces.
Wrinkle is one of the few books of my life that I have loved so much I have literally read it to pieces. The binding broke years ago, on who knows which repeated reading. It's in tatters. The pages are brownish-yellow. The cover is completely off. I used to keep a rubber band around the whole thing to hold it together, but that seemed to hurt it worse, so now I just let it be, sandwiched in between Dance in the Desert and A Wind in the Door, near the beginning of my L'Engle collection.
I confess, when I re-read Wrinkle last fall, I read another copy, one I bought at a used book sale. But I just can't get rid of this one. It was the first Madeleine book I ever read, the copy I clutched in my eager eleven year old hands the first time I followed Meg, Charles Wallace and Calvin to Camazotz. Even broken, maybe especially broken, it's one of my book treasures.
Wrinkle is one of the few books of my life that I have loved so much I have literally read it to pieces. The binding broke years ago, on who knows which repeated reading. It's in tatters. The pages are brownish-yellow. The cover is completely off. I used to keep a rubber band around the whole thing to hold it together, but that seemed to hurt it worse, so now I just let it be, sandwiched in between Dance in the Desert and A Wind in the Door, near the beginning of my L'Engle collection.
I confess, when I re-read Wrinkle last fall, I read another copy, one I bought at a used book sale. But I just can't get rid of this one. It was the first Madeleine book I ever read, the copy I clutched in my eager eleven year old hands the first time I followed Meg, Charles Wallace and Calvin to Camazotz. Even broken, maybe especially broken, it's one of my book treasures.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Here We Go Again!
Well, our "Re-Reading Harry" blog was so fruitful (and so much fun!) that Erin and I have decided to give it another go. This time around, we'll be reading books by Madeleine L'Engle. Madeleine's been one of the "authors of my heart" since I first read A Wrinkle in Time when I was eleven years old. Her works have a place of honor on...and take up two shelves of!...my living room bookcase.
I'm eager to get the discussion started, but first we've got to decide on what to read. Erin has expressed an interest in re-reading Wrinkle, which would seem a natural place to start, and then we might head into non-fiction territory with perhaps my favorite of all Madeleine's non-fiction books: Walking on Water. After that, who knows? It should be a wonderful springtime conversation!
I'm eager to get the discussion started, but first we've got to decide on what to read. Erin has expressed an interest in re-reading Wrinkle, which would seem a natural place to start, and then we might head into non-fiction territory with perhaps my favorite of all Madeleine's non-fiction books: Walking on Water. After that, who knows? It should be a wonderful springtime conversation!
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