Love love loved it. Been a while since a book demanded I pick it up, particularly when I didn't intend to (e.g. in bed on verge of sleep, which then is postponed because...), and held me captive until I finished. I wish they'd do that more often.

Sometimes the things you're most suspicious of at first, for that, turn out most dear. —which may possibly be one of the themes of the book.

Things about it I can of course criticize, not unconnected to things found in other L'Engle books. But don't really care.

Books don't typically make me cry. Those that do can change everything about whatever situation I'm in just by conjuring them. In this case, a crowded subway car at the end of an atrociously frustrating and disheartening prolonged event, suddenly transformed to something quintessential and joyous at thinking of a woman sitting on an ice floe playing a Celtic harp and singing to penguins, who clump in to listen.