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I love to smell flowers in the dark, she said. You get hold of their soul then.
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
Flowers
Smell
Flower
Hold
Dark
Soul
Love
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In everything you do aim to excel for what is worth doing is worth doing well
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I've done my best, and I begin to understand what is meant by 'the joy of strife'. Next to trying and winning, the best thing is trying and failing.
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...a little appreciation sometimes does quite as much good as all the conscientious bringing up in the world.
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She looked like a head-on collision between a fashion plate and a nightmare.
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…I think,' concluded Anne, hitting on a very vital truth, 'that we always love best the people who need us.
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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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I have really done so few bad things that they have to keep harping on the old ones [.]
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The woods are never solitary--they are full of whispering, beckoning, friendly life. But the sea is a mighty soul, forever moaning of some great, unshareable sorrow, which shuts it up into itself for all eternity.
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You'd find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair, said Anne reproachfully. People who haven't red hair don't know what trouble is.
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You're never safe from being surprised until you're dead.
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…the Lake of Shining Waters was blue — blue — blue not the changeful blue of spring, nor the pale azure of summer, but a clear, steadfast, serene blue, as if the water were past all modes and tenses of emotion and had settled down to a tranquillity unbroken by fickle dreams.
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I suppose it was a romantic was to perish... for a mouse
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Facts are stubborn things, but, as some one has wisely said, not half so stubborn as fallacies.
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It was rapture enough just to sit there beside him in silence, alone in the summer night in the white splendor of moonshine, with the wind blowing down on them out of the pine woods.
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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?
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You'll never write anything that really satisfies you though it may satisfy other people.
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I am simply a book drunkard.
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I suppose all this sounds very crazy — all these terrible emotions always do sound foolish when we put them into our inadequate words. They are not meant to be spoken — only felt and endured.
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My pen shall heal, not hurt.
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Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one's life with pomp and blare... Perhaps it crept to one's side like an old friend through quiet ways.
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