A sad day, for me. One of my favorite authors has died. She was elderly, lived to 88, and wrote prolifically, and I love her work. Madeleine L’Engle died yesterday.
Her books have been companions to me, since I first read A Wrinkle In Time when I was perhaps 12. Even as an adult, I’ve been adding more of her works to my library, and enjoyed most of them.
Wrinkle is especially important to me, as I use her knowledge of the darkness that is waiting, The Black Thing, as my own mechanism to cope with, and come to grips with my darkness, the depression that waits for me.
I know it doesn’t matter that the author didn’t know me, doesn’t know that I used her metaphors as my own. She had no clue that this particular book had such a profound and lasting impact on me that years later, I could find in my memory a way to think about darkness that worked for me.
No, she didn’t know these things, at least not in the way we “know” our family, or our friends or neighbors, or even in the way we who share our thoughts in blogs do, with our comments and reactions to each other. But, from interviews I’ve read, from the writings she’s left us, I know that she was aware of the depth that she gave to millions.
I’m going to miss her.
God Bless you, and Thank You, Madeleine.