In his writings, he has traveled, not only to other worlds, but into his own. He learned who he was and who he wanted to be, what he might aspire to, and what he might dare to dream about the world and himself. More powerfully and persuasively than from anywhere else, he learned the difference between good and evil, right and wrong. A wrinkle in time described that evil, that wrong, existing in a different dimension from our own. But he felt that he, too, existed much of the time in a different dimension from everyone else he knew. There was waking, and there was sleeping. And then there were his writings, a kind of parallel universe in which anything might happen and frequently did, a universe in which he might be a newcomer but was never really a stranger. His real, true world. His perfect island.
