The previous post's title, "Unfolding," and a search in this
journal for "porpentine," yield . . .
Cynthia Zarin in The New Yorker, issue dated April 12, 2004 –
"Time, for L'Engle, is accordion-pleated. She elaborated,
'When you bring a sheet off the line, you can't handle it until
it's folded, and in a sense, I think, the universe can't exist until
it's folded– or it's a story without a book.'"