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Ever since I read Claire’s review of Two-Part Invention by Madeleine L’Engle (1988), I’ve been keen to read it. That was back in 2012, and I bought a copy while I was in Washington D.C. in 2015 – and have finally read it. Claire was right, of course, and I encourage you to go and read her wonderful review.

My only other experience with L’Engle is A Wrinkle in Time, and that put me off a little bit, because I didn’t like it at all – but my distaste for young adult science-fiction is weaker than my trust in Claire’s opinions. And Two-Part Invention could scarcely be any more different. For one, it is a memoir – in fact, the fourth in a series of memoirs, though I only learned that after I’d finished. In it, L’Engle largely focuses on her relationship with her husband, actor Hugh Franklin, flashing easily between their first meetings and their current experiences. Those experiences are dominated by a serious illness that Franklin is facing – this is no charming reminiscence. Often it is brutal, though undercut with the gentleness that is the keynote of L’Engle’s personality and style.

I love any book where a house is important, and Crosswicks is central to this memoir. It’s the New England farmhouse where L’Engle and Franklin lived for many years – sometimes splitting their time between it and New York, and sometimes becoming so immersed in the life of the small community that they ran the local shop. It’s where L’Engle is sitting while she writes Two-Part Invention, which has an almost diary-like feel at times. She is in the midst of her husband’s terrible illness, not knowing what the end of it will be – or even the next step. Parts are penned while they wait for individual diagnoses, as stepping stones either to or away from something disastrous.

On the other hand, she looks back to their meeting with somewhere between clear-sightedness and rose-tinted glasses. I suppose it’s the sepia of nostalgia that, even if it is scrupulously honest, cannot help being fond of those long-ago versions of oneself. I liked everything about this book, but I particularly enjoyed these sections. I find anything set in the theatrical world fascinating, fiction or non-fiction, and so I loved L’Engle’s memories of encountering the dashing leading man – and being surprised when he was interested in her, a bit-part player. One of the delightful things about Two-Part Invention is what I learned about American theatre of the mid-century:

Those of us on the lower rungs of the theatrical ladder were encouraged to work on scenes from other plays in order to develop our acting techniques. We were allowed to rehearse on-stage, although, because of the rigid rules of the stagehands’ union, we were not allowed to move any of the furniture. Occasionally we made bold to shove a table or chair out of the way, but we had to be sure we were not caught doing it (otherwise, the stagehands would have had to be paid), and we had to put whatever it was back in exactly the place from which we had taken it.

Two of my most interesting jobs in The Cherry Orchard were musical. At the end oft he first act I played a small lullaby on a recorder. It was necessary that I be in full costume and visible from at least one seat in the audience; otherwise, I would had to join the prohibitively expensive musicians’ union.

L’Engle doesn’t go into enormous detail about her writing career, though some of her books appear as milestones in other events, particularly her debut. It is a bit startling to see others appear in passing, when presumably they took a lot of time and energy to create, but I suppose L’Engle chose the thematic remit of the book – which is chiefly her relationship with her husband, and how that came to be and developed.

It might sound like the two strands of this memoir would be at odds – that the present-day waiting for test results and diagnoses might clash with the theatrical and romantic nostalgia. The brilliance of Two-Part Invention is that they flow in and out of each other so well. And I suppose that’s because they are connected by L’Engle’s love for her husband – both the memories and the current anxieties are founded on that depth and honesty of love that only comes from decades spent together, through thick and thin.

One of the things I found interesting in Claire’s review was that she was a little jolted by L’Engle’s writing about faith, though came to appreciate the way L’Engle wrote about it and the depth of intimacy that this brought. I was also a bit jolted by it – because it’s so rare to see people discuss their faith this freely and honestly. As a Christian, I of course loved seeing it – without the need to apologise or dampen it down. Very refreshing, and made the memoir feel all the more real and relatable to me. Perhaps I can’t relate to much in L’Engle’s life, but I can certainly relate to that.

Perhaps this wasn’t the perfect time to read this memoir, given that a pandemic isn’t an ideal world in which to read anything with a health crisis at the centre of it – and yet, despite the darkness that runs through the centre of this book, my main feeling coming from it is that it was beautiful to spend this time with L’Engle. It is like spending time with a good, honest, vulnerable friend – and I’ll certainly keep an eye out for the others in the series now.