11
" And we're not alone, you know, children," came Mrs. Whatsit, the comforter. " All through the universe, it's being fought, all through the cosmos, and my, but it's a grand and exciting battle. I know it's hard for you to understand about size, how there's very little difference in the size of the tiniest microbe and the greatest galaxy. You think about that, and maybe it won't seem strange to you that some of our very best fighters have come right from your own planet, and it's a little planet, dears, out on the edge of a little galaxy. You can be proud that it's done so well." " Who have our fighters been? Calvin asked." Oh, you must know them, dear," Mrs. Whatsit said. Mrs. Who's spectacles shone out at them triumphantly. " And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not." " Jesus!" Charles Wallace said. " Why of course, Jesus!" " Of course!" Mrs. Whatsit said. " Go on, Charles, love. There were others. All your great artists. They've been lights for us to see by. "
12
" In your language you have a form of poetry called a sonnet...It is a very strict form of poetry, is it not?...There are fourteen lines, I believe, all in iambic pentameter. That's a very strict rhythm or meter, yes?...And each line has to end with a rigid rhyme pattern. And if the poet does not do it exactly this way, it is not a sonnet, is it?''No.''But within this strict form the poet has complete freedom to say whatever he wants, doesn't he?''Yes." Calvin nodded again.'So,' said Mrs. Whatsit.'So what?''Oh, do not be stupid, boy!' Mrs. Whatsit scolded. 'You know perfectly well what I am driving at!''You mean you're comparing our lives to a sonnet? A strict form, but with freedom within it?''Yes,' Mrs. Whatsit said. " You're given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. "
15
" When was the last time you were kissed?" he went on easily. " And I'm not talking about the dry, noncommittal, meaningless kiss you forget about as soon as it's over." I scrambled out of my stupor long enough to quip, " Like last night's kiss?" He cocked an eyebrow. " That so? I wonder, then, why you moaned my name after you drifted to sleep." " I did not!" " If only I'd had a video recorder. When was the last time you were really kissed?" he repeated." You seriously think I'm going to tell you?" " Your ex?" he guessed. " And if he was?" " Was it your ex who taught you to be ashamed and uncomfortable with intimacy? He took from you what he wanted, but never seemed to be around when you wanted something back, isn't that right? What do you want, Britt?" he asked me point-blank. " Do you really want to pretend like last night never happened?" " Whatever happened between me and Calvin isn't your business,” I fired back." For your information, he was a really great boyfriend. I-I wish I was with him right now!" I exclaimed untruthfully. My careless comment made him flinch, but he recovered quickly." Does he love you?" " What?" I said, flustered. " If you know him so well, it shouldn't be a hard question. Is he in love with you? Was he ever in love with you?" I tossed my head back haughtily. " I know what you're doing. You're trying to cut him down because you're-you're jealous of him!" " You're damn right I'm jealous,” he growled. " When I kiss a girl, I like to know she's thinking about me, not the fool who gave her up. "
19
" Hey Meg! Communication implies sound. Communion doesn't.' He sent her a brief image of walking silently through the woods, the two of them alone together., their feet almost noiseless on the rusty carpet of pine needles. They walked without speaking, without touching, and yet they were as close as it is possible for two human beings to be. They climbed up through the woods, coming out into the brilliant sunlight at the top of the hill. A few sumac trees showed their rusty candles. Mountain laurel, shiny, so dark a green the leaves seemed black in the fierceness of sunlight, pressed toward the woods. Meg and Calvin had stretched out in the thick, late-summer grass, lying on their backs, gazing up into the shimmering blue of sky, a vault interrupted only by a few small clouds.
And she had been as happy, she remembered, as it is possible to be, and as close to Calvin as she had ever been to anybody in her life, even Charles Wallace, so close that their separate bodies, daisies and buttercups joining rather than dividing them, seemed a single enjoyment of summer and sun and each other.
That was surely the purest kind of thing.
Mr. Jenkins had never had that kind of communion with another human being, a communion so rich and full that silence speaks more powerfully than words. "
― Madeleine L'Engle , A Wind in the Door (Time Quintet, #2)
