Anne, with an E(mily)

I've got a post in the works, but it's hugely long and difficult and rambling. So it will take a lot of cutting up before it's ready or be scrapped altogether, and I don't feel like putting that much effort into revision right now...

So...

ANNE QUOTES!

Because I am usually in at least one of her moods. Last night I was busy being horribly miserable, so we can call that the Depths of Despair. I never could understand how Marilla had never been in and couldn't imagine the Depths of Despair, could you? I think she actually had been and didn't want to admit it. She did step out with Gilbert's father for a bit when they were young, after all, so it's not like her life is without intrigue.

Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. It's splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world.

(I am optimistic, anyway.)

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.

I suppose so, Anne.

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.

But really, Marilla, one can't stay sad very long in such an interesting world, can one?

True!

(I have a small story to tell, but it doesn't belong in this post, which really is getting too long.)

At the moment my mood is:
Things never seem as bad in the morning as they do in the middle of the night.
Warily hopeful. And by that I mean very, very warily (that's a funny word, isn't it? Waariillyyy).
Attempting not to be too restless and discontent.
Trying to be tenacious and determined.
Slightly overwhelmed.
Really descriptive.
Still without a name...

And ever so Anne-ish, but with a great deal of Emily mixed in. See, I love and adore Anne, and I speak and think her language, and want to be like Anne. But that leaves all my non-Anne bits (of which there are a good many) unaccounted for. Way deep down, I suspect the innermost me is extremely Emily-ish.

Emily was one of "the eternal slaves of beauty," of whom Carman sings, who are yet "masters of the world." She was tired, but her tiredness showed itself in a certain exaltation of feeling and imagination such as she often experienced when over-fatigued. Thought was quick and active. She had a series of brilliant imaginary conversations and thought out so many epigrams that she was agreeably surprised at herself. It was good to feel vivid and interesting and all-alive once more. She was alone but not lonely.