16/365 Many Waters by Madeleine L'Engle

I love Madeleine L'Engle.  Have I said that already?
A Wrinkle in Time will always be my favorite, but I still liked this one an awful lot.

Apparently, I'm reverting to my childhood reading diet or something.  Pots of Lois Lowry and Madeline L'Engle.  And I'm feeling an urge to re-read all the Lemony Snicket books again.  I don't usually read this many kids' books.  Well, I don't usually read this many books period.  So whatever.

CONCLUSION: I must get my hands on the last book in this collection.  Heck, I must get my hands on all the rest of her books.  I'm very proud that I finished this book early in the day and am typing this before twelve.  I'm going to go read some Lois Lowry or Genesis now.

P.S.
I got this book this morning at the big annual library sale.  It was lovely.  Well, the sale itself was crowded as heck, but the results were lovely.  I went in knowing I wanted L'Engle and Dorothy Sayers and Tristram Sandy, and I came out with them!  That doesn't often happen for me.  Usually at book sales I turn into a lathering tornado-monster thing and grab every book I can see.  I really restrained myself today.  Six Dorothy Sayers books, Many Waters, Tristram Shandy, The Pickwick Papers, The Song of Roland, selected poems of Emliy Dickinson, letters of E.B. White, Maira Kalman's Max books all in one delightful volume, Six Ibsen plays, five Shaw plays, and selected poems of Longfellow.  What is that? 16?  I doubt anyone on earth except me would like to read the list of books I got today, but I'm rather happy about it all.
I also bought a book bag:

It's quite nice.

P.P.S.
There was a copy of A Wind in the Door too, but I couldn't bring myself to buy it.  It was too hideous.

Shakespeare Stories

My family is moving out of an apartment into a house in ten days (thank the Lord - four Fehlbergs is a lot of personality for 700 square feet), and I spent a good bit of the weekend packing books.  Good old Orhan Pamuk is right - while I was stacking and arranging the books into boxes, the covers did transport me back to the first time I read them. And it was great.  I came across The Random House Book of Shakespeare Stories, and wham-o! I was twelve again, lingering over the pages and planning the brain-implodingly expensive theatre versions I would put on.  (No fake flowers on the fairies, and immediate expulsion for any who could not manage to look graceful in flight and not, as I thought most actors did, like a bag of potatoes being heaved by a crane.  I would have been the director from hell.)  Being familiar with the re-written versions of the stories of Twelfth Night and Hamlet and A Midsummer Night's Dream before I read the real plays was actually lovely.  To sound completely pompous, it made them feel like better versions of good memories when I actually dove into the real deals.