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Anne laughed and sighed. She felt very old and mature and wise — which showed how young she was.

Lucy Maud Montgomery

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Lucy Maud Montgomery
Age: 67 †
Born: 1874
Born: November 30
Died: 1942
Died: April 24
Author
Biographer
Diarist
Novelist
Poet
Short Story Writer
Writer
New London
Prince Edward Island
Lucy Maud Montgomery Macdonald
Young
Anne
Sighed
Showed
Mature
Laughed
Wise
Felt

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Tears don't hurt like the ache does.
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I wonder what it would be like to live in a world where it was always June.
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But was anything in life, Anne asked herself wearily, like one's imagination of it?
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I do know my own mind,' protested Anne. 'The trouble is, my mind changes and then I have to get acquainted with it all over again.
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I can't cheer up — I don't want to cheer up. It's nicer to be miserable!
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You can't have many exclamation points left,' thought Anne, 'but no doubt the supply of italics is inexhaustible.
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There's such a lot of different Annes in me. I sometimes think that is why I'm such a troublesome person. If I was just the one Anne it would be ever so much more comfortable, but then it wouldn't be half so interesting.
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Anne was always glad in the happiness of her friends but it is sometimes a little lonely to be surrounded everywhere by happiness that is not your own.
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After all, what could you expect from a pig but a grunt?
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Here sat Marilla Cuthbert, when she sat at all, slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously.
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I can't help flying up on the wings of anticipation. It's as glorious as soaring through a sunset... almost pays for the thud.
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Few women are so beautiful and charming that they can afford to divest themselves of any portion of their charm so they are very foolish to do so by smoking. It doesn't matter about men. Men look ugly and silly, too, when smoking. But it isn't beauty that matters with them-only strength
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I wonder if it will be—can be—any more beautiful than this,’ murmured Anne, looking around her with the loving, enraptured eyes of those to whom ‘home’ must always be the loveliest spot in the world, no matter what fairer lands may lie under alien stars.
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The point of good writing is knowing when to stop.
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It's the fools that make all the trouble in the world, not the wicked.
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Don't try to write anything you can't feel - it will be a failure - 'echoes nothing worth
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Reading stories is bad enough but writing them is worse.
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Nobody whom this war has touched will ever be happy again in quite the same way. But it will be a better happiness, I think, little sister - a happiness we've earned.
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Heretics are wicked, but they're mighty int'resting. It's jest that they've got sorter lost looking for God, being under the impression that He's hard to find - which He ain't never.
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