The first "grown-up" book I ever read was Anne of Green Gables, in third grade. Thereupon beginning a new epoque in my life.
Years later, whilst roaming my school library, I stumbled upon a most surreal reality: Anne was not one book, but many.
And so, the "mere epoque" spun out into many years of reading and re-reading, of discovering the Emilys and rebelling against associating the Anne from the movie to the Anne from my dreams.
The Anne from my dreams became my imaginary friend, the one whom I whispered secrets to at night. And then the Anne transmuted into the recipient of my diary's letters, dear old Anne, because she surely understood.
Understood about dreams and about fairyland and about crazy assaults of the imaginations which make you cringe with the unspeakability of them. Oh, Anne, she was wont to understand how my love for the sea hurt, how flowers had a joy elixir within their petals that I craved all winter long, how the raindrop on the roof was the music that fairies danced to at their balls, and how trees had souls and were infinitely, infinitely wise.
It's been over a year since I last read a truly bewitching book. It was Metaphysics of the Tubes by Amélie Nothomb, in May of 2014. And I was beginning to fear for my reading habits, for my reading needs, when I decided to crack open the Emily books again.
Last night, I read for hours after going to bed. I had almost forgotten that books are stronger than circadian cycles.
After an hour or two of traipsing through Prince Edward Island, I broke into tears and reiterated "Thank you God"s.
And thank you, LM Montgomery, for letting me discover through the pages of your literary daughters a passion for reading (and a passion for nature, and for learning, and for home sweet homes.)
And thank you, LM Montgomery, for reminding me of this passion for reading when I feared for it the most. (Damn you Law School.)