It'd have been a lot easier if I could have gone on hating him

This is a found post. As in, I found it on my desktop; it's at least three years old and I don't know why I never put it up, except that it didn't have a title and it didn't have music and I can't tell if I forgot about it or just decided nobody would care. There are half-finished, half-started livejournal fragments all over this machine. They weren't a good sign. Anyway. This is a form of clean-up. Here.

There are several reasons A Wind in the Door (1973) is my favorite of Madeleine L'Engle's original Murry books, a few being the singular cherubim, the idea of kything, the deep-eddying undersea of Yadah, and the statement that "Love isn't feeling," which I associated then and still with Le Guin's concept of ontá.¹ But a significant contributor to its imprint on me as a child, and one which only came into focus for me a few years ago, is the character of Mr. Jenkins. Everyone be surprised.

( Now, see here, I don't know who you are and I don't care, but I demand an explanation. )

And for a further L'Engle connection: happy birthday, gaudior! Rabbit, rabbit, my best cousin. More joy.