Someone must have been keeping watch. The Murrys and Dr. Louise came running through the apple orchard, across the field, running to greet them. There was much hugging, tears of relief, joyous barking from Og.
Zachary stood quietly apart.
Then Polly’s grandparents urged them all into the kitchen, the warmth, the scent of applewood and geraniums and freshly baked bread. Polly and the bishop started to speak at once, telling their own versions of what had happened. Zachary stood in silence.
Then Dr. Louise had her stethoscope out, listening to Zachary’s heart. “There appears to be a slight murmur,” she said at last. “I’m not sure how much clinical importance it has. Certainly it is not a perfect heart. You will need to check in with your own doctors as soon as possible.”
“I will. But there’s a difference. I can breathe without feeling I’m lifting weights. Thanks, Doctor. All of you.” He went to Polly and took both her hands. “Polly.” He looked at her, but said nothing more. She waited, letting him hold her hands. He opened his mouth as though to speak, closed it, shook his head.
“You will—” she started. Stopped.
“Yes, Polly. I will.” He withdrew his hands. “I’d better go now.”
Polly said, “I’ll go out to the car with you.”
The bishop put his hand on Zachary’s shoulder. “It will not be easy.”
“I know.”
“Remember that the lines of love are always there. You may hold on to them.”
“I will. Thanks.”
“God go with you.”
“I don’t believe in God.”
“That’s all right. I do.”
“I’m glad.”
Polly walked with Zachary through the garage and to the lane where he had parked his car. He got in. Rolled down the window.
“Polly.” She looked at him. He shrugged. “Sorry. Thanks. Words aren’t any good.”
“That’s okay. Just take care.” She plunged her hands into the anorak pockets and her fingers touched Zachary’s angel icon. She pulled it out.
“You still have my icon.”
“Yes. I always will.”
She put the icon back. The bishop came out, walking rapidly across the lawn on his heron’s legs. “Come, dear one. Let’s go into the house.”
“Goodbye,” Zachary said. “Polly. You have on that sheepskin tunic.”
She ran her hands lightly over the warm fleece that hung well below the anorak. “Anaral’s tunic. I can’t return it, can I?”
The bishop smiled. “She would want you to have it. For herself and Klep. For the good memories.”
Zachary looked at Polly. At the bishop. Rolled up the window, started the ignition. Waved one hand. Drove off.
The bishop put his arm around Polly and they started back toward the house, to all these people Polly loved. But there were others she loved, too, and she would never see them again.
“What happens to what’s happened?” she asked the bishop.
“It’s there. Waiting.”
“But the time gate’s closed, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But that can’t take away what we’ve had. The good and the bad.”
Again her fingers touched the angel icon. She looked across the fields to the low shoulders of the ancient hills. It seemed that flickering dimly behind them she could see the jagged snow-topped peaks of mountains.
They went into the house.
Other Novels in the Time Quintet
Many Waters
A Swiftly Tilting Planet
A Wind in the Door
A Wrinkle in Time
NEWBERY MEDAL ACCEPTANCE SPEECH
The Expanding Universe
August 1963
For a writer of fiction to have to sit down and write a speech, especially a speech in which she must try to express her gratitude for one of the greatest honors of her life, is as difficult a task as she can face. She can no longer hide behind the printed page and let her characters speak for her; she must stand up in front of an illustrious group of librarians, editors, publishers, writers, feeling naked, the way one sometimes does in a dream. What then, does she say? Should she merely tell a series of anecdotes about her life and how she happened to write this book? Or should she try to be profound and write a speech that will go down in the pages of history, comparable only to the Gettysburg Address? Should she stick to platitudes that will offend no one and say nothing? Perhaps she tries all of these several times and then tears them up, knowing that if she doesn’t, her husband will do it for her, and decides simply to say some of the things she feels deeply about.
I can’t tell you anything about children’s books that you don’t already know. I’m not teaching you; you’re teaching me. All I can tell you is how Ruth Gagliardo’s telephone call about the Newbery Medal has affected me over the past few years.
One of my greatest treasures is the letter Mr. Melcher wrote me, one of the last letters he wrote, talking about the medal and saying he had just read A Wrinkle in Time and had been excited about it. This was one of the qualities that made him what he was: the ability to be excited. Bertha Mahony Miller, in her article “Frederic G. Melcher—A Twentieth Century John Newbery,” says that “The bookstore’s stock trade is . . . explosive material, capable of stirring up fresh life endlessly. . . .” I like here to think of another Fred, the eminent British scientist Fred Hoyle, and his theory of the universe, in which matter is continuously being created, with the universe expanding but not dissipating. As island galaxies rush away from each other into eternity, new clouds of gas are condensing into new galaxies. As old stars die, new stars are being born. Mr. Melcher lived in this universe of continuous creation and expansion. It would be impossible to overestimate his influence on books, particularly children’s books; impossible to overestimate his influence on the people who read books, write them, get enthusiastic about them. We are all here tonight because of his vision, and we would be less than fair to his memory if we didn’t resolve to keep alive his excitement and his ability to grow, to change, to expand.
I am of the first generation to profit by Mr. Melcher’s excitement, having been born shortly before he established the Newbery Award, and growing up with most of these books on my shelves. I learned about mankind from Hendrik Willem van Loon; I traveled with Dr. Dolittle, created by a man I called Hug Lofting; Will James taught me about the West with Smoky; in boarding school I grabbed Invincible Louisa the moment it came into the library because Louisa May Alcott had the same birthday that I have, and the same ambitions. And now to be a very small link in the long chain of those writers, of the men and women who led me into the expanding universe, is both an honor and a responsibility. It is an honor for which I am deeply grateful to Mr. Melcher and to those of you who decided A Wrinkle in Time was worthy of it.
The responsibility has caused me to think seriously during these past months on the subject of vocation, the responsibility added to the fact that I’m working now on a movie scenario about a Portuguese nun who lived in the mid-1600s, had no vocation, was seduced and then betrayed by a French soldier of fortune, and, in the end, through suffering, came into a true vocation. I believe that every one of us here tonight has as clear and vital a vocation as anyone in a religious order. We have the vocation of keeping alive Mr. Melcher’s excitement in leading young people into an expanding imagination. Because of the very nature of the world as it is today, our children receive in school a heavy load of scientific and analytic subjects, so it is in their reading for fun, for pleasure, that they must be guided into creativity. These are forces working in the world as never before in the history of mankind for standardization, for the regimentation of us all, or what I like to call making muffins of us, muffins all like every other muffin in the muffin tin. This is the limited universe, the drying, dissipating universe that we can help our children avoid by providing them with “explosive material capable of stirring up fresh life endlessly.”
So how do we do it? We can’t just s
it down at our typewriters and turn out explosive material. I took a course in college on Chaucer, one of the most explosive, imaginative, and far-reaching in influence of all writers. And I’ll never forget going to the final exam and being asked why Chaucer used certain verbal devices, certain adjectives, why he had certain characters behave in certain ways. And I wrote in a white heat of fury, “I don’t think Chaucer had any idea why he did any of these things. That isn’t the way people write.”
I believe this as strongly now as I did then. Most of what is best in writing isn’t done deliberately.
Do I mean, then, that an author should sit around like a phony Zen Buddhist in his pad, drinking endless cups of espresso coffee and waiting for inspiration to descend upon him? That isn’t the way the writer works, either. I heard a famous author say once that the hardest part of writing a book was making yourself sit down at the typewriter. I know what he meant. Unless a writer works constantly to improve and refine the tools of his trade, they will be useless instruments if and when the moment of inspiration, of revelation, does come. This is the moment when a writer is spoken through, the moment that a writer must accept with gratitude and humility, and then attempt, as best he can, to communicate to others.
A writer of fantasy, fairy tale, or myth must inevitably discover that he is not writing out of his own knowledge or experience, but out of something both deeper and wider. I think that fantasy must possess the author and simply use him. I know that this is true of A Wrinkle in Time. I can’t possibly tell you how I came to write it. It was simply a book I had to write. I had no choice. And it was only after it was written that I realized what some of it meant.
Very few children have any problem with the world of the imagination; it’s their own world, the world of their daily life, and it’s our loss that so many of us grow out of it. Probably this group here tonight is the least grown-out-of-it group that could be gathered together in one place, simply by the nature of our work. We, too, can understand how Alice could walk through the mirror into the country on the other side; how often have our children almost done this themselves? And we all understand princesses, of course. Haven’t we all been badly bruised by peas? And what about the princess who spat forth toads and snakes whenever she opened her mouth to speak, and the other whose lips issued forth pieces of pure gold? We all have had days when everything we’ve said has seemed to turn to toads. The days of gold, alas, don’t come nearly as often.
What a child doesn’t realize until he is grown is that in responding to fantasy, fairy tale, and myth he is responding to what Erich Fromm calls the one universal language, the one and only language in the world that cuts across all barriers of time, place, race, and culture. Many Newbery books are from this realm, beginning with Dr. Dolittle; books on Hindu myth, Chinese folklore, the life of Buddha, tales of American Indians, books that lead our children beyond all boundaries and into the one language of all mankind.
In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth. . . . The extraordinary, the marvelous thing about Genesis is not how unscientific it is, but how amazingly accurate it is. How could the ancient Israelites have known the exact order of an evolution that wasn’t to be formulated for thousands of years? Here is a truth that cuts across barriers of time and space.
But almost all of the best children’s books do this, not only an Alice in Wonderland, a Wind in the Willows, a Princess and the Goblin. Even the most straightforward tales say far more than they seem to mean on the surface. Little Women, The Secret Garden, Huckleberry Finn—how much more there is in them than we realize at a first reading. They partake of the universal language, and this is why we turn to them again and again when we are children, and still again when we have grown up.
Up on the summit of Mohawk Mountain in northwest Connecticut is a large flat rock that holds the heat of the sun long after the last of the late sunset has left the sky. We take our picnic up there and then lie on the rock and watch the stars, one pulsing slowly into the deepening blue, and then another and another and another, until the sky is full of them.
A book, too, can be a star, “explosive material, capable of stirring up fresh life endlessly,” a living fire to lighten the darkness, leading out into the expanding universe.
GOFISH
QUESTIONS FOR THE AUTHOR
What did you want to be when you grew up?
A writer.
When did you realize you wanted to be a writer?
Right away. As soon as I was able to articulate, I knew I wanted to be a writer. And I read. I adored Emily of New Moon and some of the other L. M. Montgomery books and they impelled me because I loved them.
When did you start to write?
When I was five, I wrote a story about a little “gurl.”
What was the first writing you had published?
When I was a child, a poem in CHILD LIFE. It was all about a lonely house and was very sentimental.
Where do you write your books?
Anywhere. I write in longhand first, and then type it. My first typewriter was my father’s pre–World War One machine. It was the one he took with him to the war. It had certainly been around the world.
What is the best advice you have ever received about writing?
To just write.
What’s your first childhood memory?
One early memory I have is going down to Florida for a couple of weeks in the summertime to visit my grandmother. The house was in the middle of a swamp, surrounded by alligators. I don’t like alligators, but there they were, and I was afraid of them.
What is your favorite childhood memory?
Being in my room.
As a young person, whom did you look up to most?
My mother. She was a storyteller and I loved her stories. And she loved music and records. We played duets together on the piano.
What was your worst subject in school?
Math and Latin. I didn’t like the Latin teacher.
What was your best subject in school?
English.
What activities did you participate in at school?
I was president of the student government in boarding school and editor of a literary magazine, and also belonged to the drama club.
Are you a morning person or a night owl?
Night owl.
What was your first job?
Working for the actress Eva La Gallienne, right after college.
What is your idea of the best meal ever?
Cream of Wheat. I eat it with a spoon. I love it with butter and brown sugar.
Which do you like better: cats or dogs?
I like them both. I once had a wonderful dog named Touche. She was a silver medium-sized poodle, and quite beautiful. I wasn’t allowed to take her on the subway, and I couldn’t afford to get a taxi, so I put her around my neck, like a stole. And she pretended she was a stole. She was an actor.
What do you value most in your friends?
Love.
What is your favorite song?
“Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes.”
What time of the year do you like best?
I suppose autumn. I love the changing of the leaves. I love the autumn goldenrod, the Queen Anne’s lace.
What was the original title of A Wrinkle in Time?
“Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Who and Mrs. Which.”
How did you get the idea for A Wrinkle in Time?
We were living in the country with our three kids on this dairy farm. I started reading what Einstein wrote about time. And I used a lot of those principles to make a universe that was creative and yet believable.
How hard was it to get A Wrinkle in Time published?
I was kept hanging for two years. Over and over again I received nothing more than the formal, printed rejection slip. Eventually, after twenty-six rejections, I called my agent and said, “Send it back. It’s too different. Nobody’s going to publish it.” He sent it back, but a few days later a friend of my mother’s insisted that I m
eet John Farrar, the publisher. He liked the manuscript, and eventually decided to publish it. My first editor was Hal Vursell.
Which of your characters is most like you?
None of them. They’re all wiser than I am.
THE L’ENGLE CAST OF CHARACTERS
Books featuring the Murry-O’Keefes:
A Wrinkle in Time (WT)
A Wind in the Door (WD)
A Swiftly Tilting Planet (STP)
Many Waters (MW)
The Arm of the Starfish (AS)
Dragons in the Waters (DW)
A House Like a Lotus (HL)
An Acceptable Time (AT)
Books featuring the Austins:
Meet the Austins (MA)
The Moon by Night (MN)
The Twenty-four Days Before Christmas (TDC)
The Young Unicorns (YU)
A Ring of Endless Light (REL)
Troubling a Star (TS)
A Wrinkle in Time Quintet Page 103