I finished A Wrinkle in Time on Sunday night. You wouldn’t expect from my previous post about how Children’s Literature is a secret passion that it would have inspired a brief bout of pseudo-Depression, but it did.
A Wrinkle in Time is great – please don’t get me wrong. It’s a child’s version of (i.e. deals with the same themes as) such science fiction classics as A Brave New World and 1984. It’s a celebration of the values of creativity and autonomy that Western culture, at least ostensibly, seeks to foster in its children. It’s funny. It’s sweet. It’s plot-driven (something Tunku Varadarajan argues in “Generation Hex: A first-time reader of the ‘Potter’ books searches for meaning in the final volume,” Wall Street Journal, July 28, 2007, is the key both the success and greatness of Harry Potter). However, i find myself rolling my eyes into the back of my head and giving a cold shudder whenever “the power of love” saves the day. I had this reaction to Potter too.
Is being adult being so jaded that you can’t even appreciate the warm, fuzziness of children’s narrative even when you appreciate the form and its conventions? Or has my relationship history ruined one of my favourite pastimes?
The therapist would not give me an answer on this one…