I just read Madeline L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time. I’m a science fiction fan and a recovering children’s librarian. This book was already a classic of young adult literature by the time I was of age to read such things. A good friend of mine told me over thirty years ago that it was the best book ever written, and I just had to read it.

So I finally did.

Trigger Warning: Blasphemy.

It bored me. Worse than that, it irritated me.

I will not go into the details of why it bored an irritated me. It’s a respected book which has literally changed lives. My failure to appreciate it is my own failing, not Ms. L’Engle’s.

We all have faults. I reserve the right to have angst about mine, and to take that angst out and fuss with it when I should be doing more productive things.

In the course of fussing, I asked an old friend if she had read the book. This is one of the three or four friends (in S.F. fandom no less!) with whom I still discuss books. She introduced me to Robert Heinlein’s work, back when we were both larval. I thought she would offer a reasoned argument to instill an appreciation for this noted work. I don’t want to be a blasphemer, after all. Blasphemers are broken on the wheel, burned at the stake, or at the very least not invited to respectable dinner parties.