It would appear that overnight my house was picked up and plopped down in the middle of the rain forest. It�s steamy and misty and the birds are making such a ruckus that it sounds positively tropical. I am camped out on the screened in porch instead of my usual balcony, due to the damp. It has been a bucolic couple of days and I feel relaxed and contented like a cat, thanks to morning yoga and a good cup of tea.

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While folding laundry last night, I turned on Disney�s airing of the film of A Wrinkle in Time. Madeleine L�Engle was one of the key writers of my childhood. Although her books are far from a smooth read, her work always introduced interesting ideas � something the average writer for adolescents seems to obscure. I don�t, strangely, have the iconic, inviolable memory of her books that prevent me from watching a film treatment in many cases. Nevertheless, I found the film a mixed bag, and didn�t, in the end, watch the whole thing. I had been a bit perplexed when reading a review of the film earlier in the day that called the story dated. It was never a tale that seemed particularly rooted in its time, beyond the play on the complex relationship between science, creativity and totalitarianism. But when I saw the film, I could see why the reviewer said dated. It felt out of place.

Wrinkle was not actually my favorite of L�Engle�s books. That honor would probably go to either A Wind in the Door (the second book of the Wrinkle trilogy) or to House Like a Lotus (with one of the worst book covers ever), about the daughter of Meg and Calvin, the two teens in Wrinkle. Or better yet, The Love Letters.

I don�t find any of L�Engle�s books totally satisfying, but they are always an interesting trip. I have had the pleasure of meeting L�Engle on several occasions and she strikes me as both wise and thoughtful, someone who has made and continues to make the attempt to make every act count. For me, it is L�Engle more than her work that is the icon. And as such, her appearance in a footnote in my dissertation -- through a girlhood association with one of the ensemble's I'm writing about -- feels like a benediction. I love that she's there, a stand-in for my other life.

There are a few other authors like this for me, where any one book provides frustration, but the overall picture the works offer of the author behind them is compelling or even inspiring. Margaret Atwood is another example of this variety of writer, for me. Cat�s Eye was my clear favorite, but I�ve read most of her books, including her poetry (some of which is truly awful) and it is Atwood that I remember more than the books.

It would seem that it is the nature of the imperfections in the work of such writers that reveals the author. The books draw me in enough to think about them, but not so much that I lose sight of the artifice.

dandlioneyes and I have recently been discussing another childhood book, one that is truly one of the most unusual novels for any age that I have ever read. Michael Ende�s Momo is iconic. I could never see a film of it. Ende is better known for The Neverending Story (and if there�s ever a novel that should never have been made into a film, not to mention two of them, that would be it. Anyone who can envision it as a film has totally missed the point. It is a book about a book). The Neverending Story is wonderful too, but Momo is a small masterpiece, with elements of a fairy tale, it is appealing to children, but the ideas behind it are far more philosophical than one is apt to encounter in the average children�s book. Interestingly, both dandlioneyes and I have strong musical associations with Momo. Perhaps it is the sensual quality of the prose (and I should mention here that I have only read it in its English translation, not in the original German). But I think it may also have something to do with the structure of the story, the introduction of themes and characters in an almost symphonic manner. It�s been too many years since I�ve reread this one. I�ve got my bedraggled copy on my nightstand, awaiting a free moment.

I�ll end this morning�s ramble with a question � what is/are your favorite childhood book(s) and why were they important to you?

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