By James Kennedy – January 11, 2013.
As a kid, all I knew about my favorite authors were their names. “Isaac Asimov” sounded to me like a forbidding cyborg; “Ray Bradbury” could have been any boy in my neighborhood. Gratifyingly, they wrote just as those names promised. The most intriguing and glamorous name was “Madeleine L’Engle.” She sounded like some mysterious witch dashing hither and thither in a storm, like Mrs Whatsit in L’Engle’s most famous book, “A Wrinkle in Time” (1962).