Wrinkle occupied a special place in my childhood heart. Like Meg, I was an awkward kid in an isolated, rural area, surrounded by family who -- in my benignly self-centered view -- just didn't understand me. But the book's good qualities go far beyond its brilliantly universal protagonist: Its covers are wide enough to encompass whole galaxies, yet something about it always remains as warm and welcoming as Meg's cup of cocoa.

When I re-read it during grad school, I found it even richer than I had the first time through. The portrayal of familial and platonic loves was more meaningful. The spiritual themes that I could only faintly outline at 11 were clearer and sturdier at 23. And despite the extra decade under my belt, a piece of me will always that awkward kid who is haunted by two infinite universes, the one around me and the one within me.