"It’s dusk, dearest. (In passing, isn’t ‘dusk’ a lovely word? I like it better than twilight. It sounds so velvety and shadowy and - and - dusky.) In daylight I belong to the world, in the night to sleep and eternity. But in the dusk I am free from both and belong only to myself - and you. So I’m going to keep this hour sacred to writing to you. Though this won’t be a love-letter. I have a scratchy pen, and I can’t write love-letters with a scratchy pen, or a sharp pen, or a stub pen. So you’ll only get that kind of a letter from me when I have exactly the right kind of a pen.
I have just the right kind of a pen tonight, Gilbert, and so… (Two pages omitted)"
this needs to be in every art history books in 10 years
I roared, or more correctly, watching it at oh-dark-thirty, I almost burst not roaring because I’d have woken D up.
This one is for all the Sherlock fans who’ve speculated about the Bedsheet in Buckingham Palace scene, and for everyone who’s done the modesty dance with towel and swimsuit on a public beach because you all know that if anyone sees your bum or your bits even for an instant, the world will end right there and then.
Watch, and wonder, and be amazed. Amused, too. A lot.
"In the twilight Anne sauntered down to the Dryad’s Bubble and saw Gilbert Blythe coming down through the dusky Haunted Wood. She had a sudden realization that Gilbert was a schoolboy no longer. And how manly he looked - the tall, frank-faced fellow, with the clear, straightforward eyes and the broad shoulders. Anne thought Gilbert a very handsome lad, even though he didn’t look at all like her ideal man. She and Diana had long ago decided what kind of a man they admired and their tastes seemed exactly similar. He must be very tall and distinguished looking, with melancholy, inscrutable eyes, and a melting, sympathetic voice. There was nothing either melancholy or inscrutable in Gilbert’s physiognomy, but of course that didn’t matter in friendship!
Gilbert stretched himself out on the ferns beside the Bubble and looked approvingly at Anne. If Gilbert had been asked to describe his ideal woman the description would have answered point for point to Anne, even to those seven tiny freckles whose obnoxious presence still continued to vex her soul. Gilbert was as yet little more than a boy; but a boy has his dreams as have others, and in Gilbert’s future there was always a girl with big, limpid gray eyes, and a face as fine and delicate as a flower."
Anne of Avonlea, L.M. Montgomery.
I’m telling you, if you stopped after only Anne of Green Gables you’re missing out on a whole world of loveliness.
""What are you thinking of, Anne?" asked Gilbert, coming down the walk. He had left his horse and buggy out at the road.
“Of Miss Lavendar and Mr. Irving,” answerd Anne dreamily. “Isn’t it beautiful to think how everything has turned out… how they have come together after all the years of separation and misunderstanding?”
“Yes, it’s beautiful,” said Gilbert, looking steadily down into Anne’s uplifted face, “but wouldn’t it have been more beautiful still, Anne, if there had been NO separation or misunderstanding… if they had come hand in hand all the way through life, with no memories behind them but those which belonged to each other?”
For a moment Anne’s heart fluttered queerly and for the first time her eyes faltered under Gilbert’s gaze and a rosy flush stained the paleness of her face. It was as if a veil that had hung before her inner consciousness had been lifted, giving to her view a revelation of unsuspected feelings and realities. Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one’s life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down: perhaps it crept to one’s side like an old friend through quiet ways: perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft of illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music, perhaps… perhaps… love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath.
Then the veil dropped again; but the Anne who walked up the dark lane was not quite the same Anne who had driven gaily down it the evening before."
Anne of Avonlea, L.M. Montgomery
I mean, if ever there were a more perfect description of *that* feeling, I don’t know what it is…
"It was a happy and beautiful bride who came down the old, homespun-carpeted stairs that September noon - the first bride of Green Gables, slender and shining-eyed, in the mist of her maiden veil, with her arms full of roses. Gilbert, waiting for her in the hall below, looked up at her with adoring eyes. She was his at last, this evasive, long-sought Anne, won after years of patient waiting. It was to him she was coming in the sweet surrender of the bride. Was he worthy of her? Could he make her as happy as he hoped? If he failed her - if he could not measure up to her standard of manhood - then, as she held out her hand, their eyes met and all doubt was swept away in a glad certainty. They belonged to each other; and, no matter what life might hold for them, it could never alter that. Their happiness was in each other’s keeping and both were unafraid."
Anne of Avonlea always was my favourite Anne book.
howardentlyiadmireandloveyou asked:I just wanted to say that I'm very much enjoying all the Anne of green gables posts lately. You're making me wish I had my copies to hand so I could sit and reread them. (also, Anne/Gilbert are the hands-down best couple in all of literature, right?)
I may be heavily biased because I watched the film adaptation before I started reading the books and fell in love with Jonathan Crombie’s everything...