![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Anne of Green Gables
Jan. 11th, 2007 02:05 pmSpurred by some excerpts in one of my anthologies, this week I've been reading L.M. Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables and Anne of Avonlea. I've enjoyed them quite a lot. Anne is enthusiastic and has positive energy that everyone responds to. Most everyone grows to love her, though her initial wildless or nonconformity may put them off at first. I'm amazed that I find her believable. I want to be her friend. I'd like to be her, especially since I know she's going to be a writer in later books. I understand her flights of fancy, her imaginative displays, and I feel like she would meet me and think I'm a kindred soul--but only on my good days. Most of the time I'm prosaic and one of those who might think she's wrong in her upper story. Here's a passage from Avonlea that I was thinking of today:
"Look do you see that poem?" she said suddenly, pointing.
"Where?" Jane and Diana stared, as if expecting to see Runic rhymes on the birch trees.
"There . . . down in the brook . . . that old green, mossy log with the water flowing over it in those smooth ripples that look as if they'd been combed, and that single shaft of sunshine falling right athwart it, far down into the pool. Oh, it's the most beautiful poem I ever saw."
"I should rather call it a picture," said Jane. "A poem is lines and verses."
"Oh dear me, no." Anne shook her head with its fluffy wild cherry coronal positively. "The lines and verses are only the outward garments of the poem and are no more really it than your ruffles and flounces are YOU, Jane. The real poem is the soul within them . . . and that beautiful bit is the soul of an unwritten poem. It is not every day one sees a soul . . . even of a poem."
"I wonder what a soul . . . a person's soul . . . would look like," said Priscilla dreamily.
"Like that, I should think," answered Anne, pointing to a radiance of sifted sunlight streaming through a birch tree. "Only with shape and features of course. I like to fancy souls as being made of light. And some are all shot through with rosy stains and quivers . . . and some have a soft glitter like moonlight on the sea . . . and some are pale and transparent like mist at dawn."
"I read somewhere once that souls were like flowers," said Priscilla.
"Then your soul is a golden narcissus," said Anne, "and Diana's is like a red, red rose. Jane's is an apple blossom, pink and wholesome and sweet."
"And your own is a white violet, with purple streaks in its heart," finished Priscilla.
Jane whispered to Diana that she really could not understand what they were talking about. Could she?
"Look do you see that poem?" she said suddenly, pointing.
"Where?" Jane and Diana stared, as if expecting to see Runic rhymes on the birch trees.
"There . . . down in the brook . . . that old green, mossy log with the water flowing over it in those smooth ripples that look as if they'd been combed, and that single shaft of sunshine falling right athwart it, far down into the pool. Oh, it's the most beautiful poem I ever saw."
"I should rather call it a picture," said Jane. "A poem is lines and verses."
"Oh dear me, no." Anne shook her head with its fluffy wild cherry coronal positively. "The lines and verses are only the outward garments of the poem and are no more really it than your ruffles and flounces are YOU, Jane. The real poem is the soul within them . . . and that beautiful bit is the soul of an unwritten poem. It is not every day one sees a soul . . . even of a poem."
"I wonder what a soul . . . a person's soul . . . would look like," said Priscilla dreamily.
"Like that, I should think," answered Anne, pointing to a radiance of sifted sunlight streaming through a birch tree. "Only with shape and features of course. I like to fancy souls as being made of light. And some are all shot through with rosy stains and quivers . . . and some have a soft glitter like moonlight on the sea . . . and some are pale and transparent like mist at dawn."
"I read somewhere once that souls were like flowers," said Priscilla.
"Then your soul is a golden narcissus," said Anne, "and Diana's is like a red, red rose. Jane's is an apple blossom, pink and wholesome and sweet."
"And your own is a white violet, with purple streaks in its heart," finished Priscilla.
Jane whispered to Diana that she really could not understand what they were talking about. Could she?