A time wrinkle as well as a space wrinkle

Dear Reader,
    After eighteen years of  reading, journaling about what I'm reading, and compulsively nattering about what I'm reading to any unfortunate family and friends within earshot, I have at last decided to embrace the zeitgeist and put my uniquely witty and profound insights about books online. The hope for this is twofold. One, I will overcome my crippling fear of computers and the Interweb and prove I really can participate in the world of being twenty something and technologically literate, even if I do listen to more Frank Sinatra and Judy Garland than indie rock. Two, I will work out my thoughts and impressions about what I am reading in a reasonably critical and articulate manner, and so prevent my brain from completely atrophying in the sudden absence of formal education or artistic employment.
   And thus, with my mission stated, I begin!  In September, I moved from New York City back into my mother's house in a Maryland suburb of Washington, D.C. After four years of living in New York, taking acting classes up to 24 hours a week, surrounding myself with fellow artists and making ends meet in between by waiting tables, I am now in my childhood home, spending time with an assortment of old friends, and occupying myself primarily by making dinner, washing dishes, and serving as part-time nanny for my nine-year-old sister. It's a peculiar combination of being a high school student and a housewife--chatting with the other mothers at the bus stop at 4 p.m., then coming home at 2 a.m. and making my tipsy way upstairs as quietly as possible without waking up my sleeping mother.
  Given my chronologically ambiguous situation, it seems only appropriate to begin with a childhood classic I just reread, Madeline L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time. I'm hoping to audition for Meg Murray in Round House Theater's upcoming adaptation of it, and I already sent them a letter rambling about how relatable yet admirable Meg is, with her combination of short temper, insecurity, loyalty and courage. What was more striking to me than Meg's likeability, however, was a scene at the end of Chapter Five ("The Tesseract") when The Happy Medium shows Meg, Calvin and Charles Wallace an image of Earth shadowed by the Black Thing, a sort of general manifestation of evil and the powers of darkness. The children are shocked and horrified, but Mrs. Which says "'Wee wwill cconnnttinnue tto ffightt!'" and Mrs. Whatsit, describing the "grand and exciting battle...being fought all through the cosmos," tells the children that some of the very best fighters have come from their own planet. Calvin wants to know who the fighters have been, and Mrs. Who quotes John 1:5, the  King James version:  "And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not."  


"'Jesus!' Charles Wallace said. 'Why, of course, Jesus!'
'Of course!' Mrs. Whatsit said. "Go on, Charles, love. There were others. All your great artists. They've been lights for us to see by.'
'Leonardo da Vinci?' Calvin suggested tentatively. 'And Michaelangelo?'
'And Shakespeare,' Charles Wallace called out, 'and Bach! And Pasteur and Madame Curie and Einstein!'
Now Calvin's voice rang with confidence. 'And Schweitzer and Gandhi and Buddha and Beethoven and Rembrandt and St. Francis!'
'Now you, Meg,' Mrs. Whatsit ordered.
'Oh, Euclid, I suppose.' Meg was in such an agony of impatience that her voice grated irritably. 'And Copernicus. But what about Father? Please, what about Father?'"


I don't know if this passage retains its power out of context, but when I came across it in the book, I was breathtaken. First because of the sudden transition from sickening fear and despair into hope and confidence; the shift in tone, the sudden joy, that characterizes some of my favorite moments in other books. Virginia Woolf, I think, does it best--and I'm sure we'll get to her before too long--but it reminded me of my favorite scene in Zadie Smith's On Beauty, when the three children in the central family all run into each other by accident in the center of their hometown; the oldest back unexpectedly early from college, the youngest cutting high school, and the middle just fortuitously in the right place. They are all  delighted to see each other and amazed by the triple coincidence of all being together; it's beginning to snow; it's a magical afternoon.
Secondly, I love this passage because before it can get schmaltzy, character, humor and plot cut in. Meg's grouchy contributions break up the sentiment of the moment and reflect her incredibly narrow field of expertise (she is a mathematical prodigy, but utterly ignorant of literature, geography and art). Equally important, they get the story back on track by returning the focus to the central plot--the search for Meg's father. It's a wonderful, fantastically efficient line, without undermining the spirited hopefulness that precedes it. 
Finally, in a small and obvious observation: I love the value system reflected here, however briefly. Ambassadors of peace, science and art are ranked equally in the fight against evil; Bach and Rembrandt's contributions to humanity are considered as valuable and profound as those of Jesus, Gandhi and Copernicus. It says worlds, again with great concision, about L'Engle's view of the arts as weapons against evil and darkness, and I think for artists, it's always nice to be reassured that someone thinks what we do is important.