“Snow in April is abominable," said Anne. "Like a slap in the face when you expected a kiss.”
“Beauty was all around them. Unsuspected tintings glimmered in the dark demesnes of the woods and glowed in their alluring by-ways. The spring sunshine sifted through the young green leaves. Gay trills of song were everywhere. There were little hollows where you felt as if you were bathing in a pool of liquid gold. At every turn some fresh spring scent struck their faces: Spice ferns...fir balsam...the wholesome odour of newly ploughed fields. There was a lane curtained with wild-cherry blossoms; a grassy old field full of tiny spruce trees just starting in life and looking like elvish things that had sat down among the grasses; brooks not yet "too broad for leaping"; starflowers under the firs; sheets of curly young ferns; and a birch tree whence someone had torn away the white-skin wrapper in several places, exposing the tints of the bark below-tints ranging from purest creamy white, through exquisite golden tones, growing deeper and deeper until the inmost layer revealed the deepest, richest brown as if to tell tha all birches, so maiden-like and cool exteriorly, had yet warm-hued feelings; "the primeval fire of earth at their hearts.”
“Well, that was life. Gladness and pain...hope and fear...and change. Always change! You could not help it. You had to let the old go and take the new to your heart...learn to love it and then let it go in turn. Spring, lovely as it was, must yield to summer and summer lose itself in autumn. The birth...the bridal...the death...”
“The dark hills, with the darker spruces marching over them, looked grim on early falling nights, but Ingleside bloomed with firelight and laughter, though the winds come in from the Atlantic singing of mournful things.
"Why isn't the wind happy, Mummy?" asked Walter one night.
"Because it is remembering all the sorrow of the world since it began," answered Anne.”
“You do love me, Gilbert? You haven’t said you loved me in so long."
“My dear, I didn’t think you needed words to know that. I can’t live without you.”
“Anne smiled and sighed. The seasons that seemed so long to Baby Rilla were beginning to pass all too quickly for her. Another summer was ended, lighted out of life by the ageless gold of Lombardy torches. Soon...all too soon...the children of Ingleside would be children no longer. But they were still hers...hers to welcome when they came home at night...hers to fill life with wonder and delight...hers to love and cheer and scold...a little.”
“It's a dreadful mistake to cherish bitterness for years... hugging it to our hearts like a treasure.”
“Time is kinder than we think,' thought Anne. 'It's a dreadful mistake to cherish bitterness for years...hugging it to our hearts like a treasure.”
“They were all growing so fast. In just a few short years they would be all young men and women...youth tiptoe...expectant...a-star with its sweet wild dreams...little ships sailing out of safe harbor to unknown ports. The boys would go away to their life work and the girls...ah, the mist-veiled forms of beautiful brides might be seen coming down the old stairs at Ingleside. But they would still be hers for a few years yet...hers to love and guide...to sing the songs that so many mothers had sung...Hers...and Gilbert's.”
“Anne sewed and planned little winter wardrobes..."Nan must have a red dress, since she is so set on it"...and sometimes thought of Hannah, weaving her little coat every year for the small Samuel. Mothers were the same all through the centuries...a great sisterhood of love and service...the remembered and the unremembered alike.”
“I should have found out what was troubling her. But I've been too much taken up with other things this week . . . things that really mattered nothing compared to a child's unhappiness. Think of what the poor darling has suffered."
She stooped repentantly, gloatingly over them. They were still hers . . . wholly hers, to mother and love and protect. They still came to her with every love and grief of their little hearts. For a few years longer they would be hers . . . and then? Anne shivered. Motherhood was very sweet . . . but very terrible.
"I wonder what life holds for them," she whispered.”
“Dear God, help him and help the mother . . . help all mothers everywhere. We need so much help, with the little sensitive, loving hearts and minds that look to us for guidance and love and understanding.”
“Every one has some fault but also some virtue … something that distinguishes it from all the others … gives it a personality. I”
“And yet … it's the little things that fret the holes in life … like moths … and ruin it.”
“This is no common day, Mrs. Dr. dear," she said solemnly.
"Oh, Susan, there is no such thing as a common day. EVERY day has something about it no other day has. Haven't you noticed?”
“of a cross-marked grave "somewhere in France." But tonight it was only a shadow … nothing more.”
“That’s wrong, Mrs. Winning was thinking, you mustn’t ever talk about whether people like you, that’s bad taste.”
“We're the ones who will fill in the blank places. Maybe we can make it different.”
“La muerte no se reparte como si fuera un bien.”
“She told me later that her parents had told her to steer clear of me at school.
"My mum said that nobody really knew where you came from. And that you might be dangerous." "Why didn't you listen to her?" I asked.
"Because nobody knew where you came from, Simon! And you might be dangerous!"
"You have the worst survival instincts."
"Also, I felt sorry for you," she said. "You were holding your wand backwards.”
“Ngày xưa, ở vương quốc Alifbay, có một thành phố u buồn, u buồn nhất trong các thành phố, một thành phố u buồn tàn tạ đến nỗi quên cả tên mình. Thành phố ấy nằm trên bờ một đại dương ảm đạm đầy rẫy sầu ngư, một loài cá u uất đến mức ai ăn vào cũng ợ lên những bi thương, dù bầu trời vẫn một màu xanh ngắt.
Phía bắc thành phố u buồn nọ sừng sững những nhà máy đồ sộ, nơi (ấy là người ta bảo thế) nỗi buồn thực sự được sản xuất, đóng gói và gửi đi khắp nơi, món hàng ấy thế gian này dường như chẳng bao giờ thấy đủ. Khói đen phun ra từ ống khói nhà máy nỗi buồn và lơ lửng trên đầu thành phố như thể một đám hung tin.”
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