REFLECTIONS ON FAITH & ART

          "My name is also Ransom," said the Voice.       It was some time before the purport of this saying dawned upon him.  He whom the other worlds call Maleldil, was the world's ransom, his own ransom, well he knew.  But to what purpose was it said now?  Before the answer came to him he felt its insufferable approach and held out his arms before him as if he could keep it from forcing open the door of his mind.  But it came.  That that was the real issue.  If he now failed, this world also would hereafter be redeemed.  If he were not the ransom, Another would be.  Yet nothing was ever repeated.  Not a second crucifixion: perhaps – who knows – not even a second Incarnation...  some act of even more appalling love, some glory of yet deeper humility.  For he had seen already how the pattern grows and how from each world it sprouts into the next through some other dimension.  The small external evil which Satan had done in Malacandra was only as a line: the deeper ev

          They left the great granite plain and flew over a garden even more beautiful than anything in a dream.  It in were gathered many of the creatures like the one Mrs. Whatsit had become, some lying among the flowers, some swimming in a broad, crystal river that flowed through the garden, some flying in what Meg was sure must be a kind of dance, moving in and out above the trees.  They were making music, music that came not only from their throats but from the movement of their great wings as well.           "What are they singing?" Meg asked excitedly.            Mrs. Whatsit shook her beautiful head.  "It won't go into your words.  I can't possibly transfer it to your words.  Are you getting any of it, Charles?"            Charles Wallace sat very still on the broad back, on his face an intently listening look, the look he had when he delved into Meg or his mother.  " A little.  Just a very little.  But I think I could more in time.