I will not hesitate to admit that as a child I was the biggest book nerd. I read constantly. Voraciously. Enthusiastically. One summer I won a reading contest for logging the most hours read. IN THE SUMMER. I was so stinkin’ proud of myself. The medal I received was a copper disc engraved with the image of an Aladdin-style lamp on top of a book. I loved that medal.
Unfortunately college ruined my unadulterated joy for reading and almost obliterated any recreational reading I once did. I’ve since recovered some of that enjoyment, but now it’s hindered by the time obligations that come with being a working adult.
In the office of my current temp job there are a host of bookshelves filled with many of the novels I enjoyed during my peak reading years. I look through them and remember the covers exactly, albeit the plots a little foggily, if at all. The same copy of Black Beauty. The same copy of The BFG. The same half dozen Babysitter’s Club books. Some I can tell were hastily written and published, filler-style books just meant to occupy a child’s time. Others are absolute classics, such as Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time.
I can remember loving this book to death but only vaguely remember the plot. I can remember sounding out her last name and trying to figure out just exactly how it’s pronounced. In a fit of nostalgia last summer I bought it and a couple other books of my youth from a local thrift store, but had been disappointed upon rereading some of them that they didn’t translate well with age. This book is different. I started reading A Wrinkle in Time the other day during my lunch hour and I am hooked. This week I’ve been reading that copy at work and my identical copy at home, and look forward to seeing it with new eyes and reconnecting with the book that I had loved so much as an impressionable child.