Emily Climbs (Emily Part 2) (Emily Starr Trilogy)

by L.M. Montgomery

But she need not be afraid I will ever elope. I have made up my mind that I will never marry. I shall be wedded to my art.

Nothing ever seems as big or as terrible—oh, nor as beautiful and grand, either, alas!—when it is written out, as it does when you are thinking or feeling about it.

'Strive—strive—keep on—words are your medium—make them your slaves—until they will say for you what you want them to say.' That is true—and I do try—but it seems to me there is something beyond words—any words—all words—something that always escapes you when you try to grasp it—and yet leaves something in your hand which you wouldn't have had if you hadn't reached for it.

Fear is a confession of weakness. What you fear is stronger than you, or you think it is, else you wouldn't be afraid of it. Remember your Emerson—"always do what you are afraid to do."'

Books are not written about proper children. They would be so dull nobody would read them.

Satirize wickedness if you must—but pity weakness.'

My pen shall heal, not hurt.

I have not been so happy since I read it. I feel as if my hands were soiled somehow and I couldn't wash them clean. And I have another queer feeling, as if some gate had been shut behind me, shutting me into a new world I don't quite understand or like, but through which I must travel.

Nobody can keep on being angry if she looks into the heart of a pansy for a little while.

The window is open and the frogs are singing of something that happened very long ago. All along the middle garden walk the Gay Folk are holding up great fluted cups of ruby and gold and pearl. It is not raining now, but it rained all day—a rain scented with lilacs. I like all kinds of weather and I like rainy days—soft, misty, rainy days when the Wind Woman just shakes the tops of the spruces gently; and wild, tempestuous, streaming rainy days. I like being shut in by the rain—I like to hear it thudding on the roof, and beating on the panes and pouring off the eaves, while the Wind Woman skirls like a mad old witch in the woods, and through the garden.

Love this paragraph. Beautifully written.

"Well, it all comes to this, there's no use trying to live in other people's opinions. The only thing to do is to live in your own.

"The only real cat is a grey cat!"

"I'm like Kipling's cat—I walk by my wild lone and wave my wild tail where so it pleases me.

"It might be a nice world if nobody ever said a disagreeable thing, but it would be a dangerous one,"

"Oh, this is beautiful," breathed Emily, bending out to drink in the balsam-scented air. "Father told me once that one could find something beautiful to love everywhere. I'll love this."

If we don't chase things—sometimes the things following us can catch up.

Aunt Elizabeth is really frightened, I know, that if she lets me grow up I'll be eloping—'like Juliet.' But I'm in no hurry to grow up. It's nicer to be just like this—betwixt-and-between. Then, if I want to be childish I can be, none daring to make me ashamed; and if I want to behave maturely I have the authority of my extra inches.