A Scholar’s Archive of Favorites

I don’t think I’ll ever stop reading.  I’ve finally stopped wondering if it would be possible for me: it just isn’t.  No matter what’s going on, no matter what I’m doing, there will always be a book.  I have not decided whether that’s a good or a bad thing.

Sometimes I am inspired to read fast, sometimes I am inspired to read slowly.  With the rates of different books, I find that the ones I read slowly get grouped together.  So, unfortunately, I have 18 currently reading books.  I decided to knock a few of them off the list, recently, so I’m working on it.

Last year I made a book of 100 books to read in 2010.  I only read 50 of them, but I think that 2009-2010 were the two best reading years of my life.  I discovered so many different worlds and writing styles and characters.  I cannot tell you how many times I’ve been heartbroken and was forced to play Chopin for days at a time in order to sympathize with myself.  But I also cannot tell you how many times my heart has been filled with joy at wonderful stories or deep-meaning themes.  It’s been an adventure.

So without further ado, here are my top 11 books of 2009-2010. :) They’re not listed in order of favorites… since it’s so hard to have a top favorite book.

The Royal Road to Romance – Richard Halliburton

I never found Geography to be so thrilling.  This book inspired me to look at maps more… Richard Halliburton uses his sense of romance and passion for the wild and “unheard of” to pen his tale of his first adventure.  The style is invigorating and colorful, the stories and myths he combines with the exotic places he visits are wonderful to read about.  He took forbidden pictures at Gibraltar, and then mailed copies to the officials saying he was sorry, but he wasn’t staying in one place so it was impossible to leave an address.  He always traveled first class with a third class train ticket.  He camped on the Cheops, and took a bath in the Nile.  He spent the night in the gardens of the Taj Mahal, he climbed the Matterhorn in winter—and Mount Fuji.  His fearless approach to travel and adventure make the book exciting to read.

An adventurer like Halliburton deserved no less than a heroic and dramatic death.  He thought of jumping off of Gibraltar rock and flying down into the sea where the moon flirted with the waves.  He thought of many drastic ends.  I suppose he was quite satisfied: he died at the age of 39 years (quite tragic, don’t you think?).  His grave is unmarked—his ship was lost in a storm, and no traces were ever found.  I think he would have been satisfied.

The Daughter of Time – Josephine Tey

Josephine Tey was the pseudonym used for Elizabeth Mackintosh, Scottish author.  The hero of most of her books is Alan Grant, a detective of the Scotland Yard.  After an accident, he is forced to lie in a hospital bed for a few months.  He memorized the ceiling and made up every kind of geometric figure he could.  He soon got bored.  When looking through pictures he found one of Richard III.  His detective’s eye, before he discovered who the person was, thought the man to be one whose life was burdened with grief.  He was astonished at discovering it to be the famous murderer of the two Princes in the tower.  He goes on an adventurous research trip in his hospital bed through all the different sources he can find, and finally comes up with a brilliant alternative.

I’m not quite certain whether the research done in the book is accurate or fictional, but certainly, several of the facts of the murder and the circumstances do not match up. Reading this brilliant little mystery made me realize that many of the stories in history cannot be taken for granted.  You cannot say that a myth is untrue and a story with facts is true, because sometimes it turns out to be quite the opposite.  The only thing you can do is look up all the books ever written on the subject, then decide your own opinion.

The Idiot – Fydor Dostoevsky

The Idiot… Where to begin? This is an incredible book.  There is no other word to describe it.  I was thrilled to the very last chapter, and then I was crushed.  It is the only novel where the good people don’t die, but it’s almost worse that way, if that makes any sense.  Now you’re not going to read it, I imagine, after such a dark report.

Prince Myshkin, aka, the Idiot, tells Lizeveta Prokofyevna Yepanchin and her three daughters a story that takes up three chapters out of the book.  They go back and forth between loving him to death and thinking him entirely weird.  But what the Prince relates, which takes you back in his past to the Swiss mountains and legalistic villagers, is wrought with quiet passion and beauty.  The first 200 pages barely cover 12 hours of one day.

The themes in this book are almost too deep to discover.  Everybody is almost too dramatic and passionate to be real, but it’s purposeful.  The intricate plot, the progression and digression of the characters, the streak of epilepsy, and the philosophical tone of the novel produces something that will change your thought-life forever.  It’s a haunting book.

The Great Gain of Godliness – Thomas Watson

Lately I have been appreciating more and more the writings of the Puritans and early church fathers.  An older man at church got me into Thomas Watson’s books—really, hidden treasures!  The Great Gain of Godliness is precise… it’s written by a passionate, godly man seeking to encourage Christians in the right way.  It’s the most humbling book I’ve ever known, as well.  It makes you want to run into the arms of Christ, yet cringe with shame before him at the same time.  For those who believe, it follows with a definite tone of hope.
The most amazing passage in this book was the chapter on thoughts.  I thought it strange how someone who lived 400 and some years ago could get inside my head so accurately, or gauge my thoughts so exactly.  He talks about how, in guarding against sinful thoughts, one must not only “not think of that….” we must look higher and set our minds on heavenly things.  It sounds simple enough, but when thoughts become truly tempting, thinking of the Kingdom of God and its righteousness is not an easy thing to do.  So this is a wonderful treasure to read.

William Wilberforce: A Hero For Humanity – Kevin Belmonte

William Wilberforce… a hero for humanity… the greatest man that ever lived… my hero.  If I ever get married, I want it to be to a man with the mindset like William Wilberforce.  I have never enjoyed a biography so much.  He was such a passionate man, he was such a humble man…. he was so magnanimous.  This book is filled with journal entries, excerpts from letters to him and letters he wrote, different opinions of different critics.  It is a well researched, well-written book by someone who loved Wilberforce and everything he stood for.  It is truly wonderful, and I have never stood more in awe of any person than I have of him.  Wracked by physical illness and pains, his purpose remained clear, and his determination strong: he lived and he finished what he set out to do.  His story is amazing, and if you have not read it, this is a wonderful place to start.

Wilberforce was loved by everyone who knew him, and his aim was to think the best of everyone—even when they spoke of him in harsh and bitter terms.  He always strove to seek out the best in them.  One thing I love best about him was that he read and studied the philosophies of different men for a few hours every morning.  His books were always underlined—he memorized passages of great books: but his most studied book was the Bible, no matter what.  Even though he was a great and wonderful man, and I am a girl, he inspires me to the -enth degree.

The Children of Hurin – J.R.R. Tolkien

This was a birthday present from a very good friend.  Unfortunately, said friend’s sister had read me the ending so I was a bit spoiled.  At any event, if you want to see the powerful hold that evil can have over a human being, this is the book to read.

I have never been so stunned as I was at the end of this book.  I remember lying on my bed just thinking, praying and hoping about my life, and my relationship with God.  I remember shaking my head and being shocked.  It was a terrible, but a good feeling at the same time.  I felt like Pandora, after beholding all the evil she had let loose, and then peering inside and seeing hope.  Not that I had leashed the evil….

Reading Tolkien is easy and hard at the same time.  He uses such interesting expressions and phrasings that sometimes it’s difficult to grasp his meaning. But this was a truly wonderful book, and I would recommend it to anyone who loves a depressing read.

Eight Cousins and Rose in Bloom (Sequel) – Louisa May Alcott

I don’t know about you, but after the reviews on The Idiot and The Children of Hurin I’m ready for something lively and bright and cheerful.  Eight Cousins (and Rose in Bloom) is precisely that.  Alright, how could you not want to read a book about a small lonely girl with eight cousins who go around proclaiming their Scotch heritage?  Having four brothers I can appreciate the humor that goes on between the main character, Rose, and her eight boy cousins.  But like most fun stories, these have many growing up themes, or important lessons that one is learning all throughout life.  Rose is not portrayed as the perfect heroine: she’s just a young girl who’s growing up and learning her life lessons.

The characters have quite a range, from the timid but well-meaning and sometimes vain Rose, to the cheerful and honest servant Phebe, to the good-natured and sensible Archie, to the handsome charmer Charlie, to the grumpy bookworm Mac, to the bright-eyed, mischievous youngsters, and never to forget the good Uncle Charlie, always seeking to instill good principals and habits in all his nephews and his niece.

Shirley – Charlotte Bronte

If you want to learn lots of new words and lots of French phrases, this is the book for you!

Most pro-feminist people nowadays would say that Charlotte Bronte was all for women’s rights and “being equal” with men.  But it seems to me that this was more the journey of a girl finding something useful to do instead of sitting around reading or sewing all day.  She says: “I may have half a century of life before me.  How am I to spend it?” It is the travels of a young girl who first wishes to marry the man she loves and assist him in his work, and then realizes she will probably never be able to marry him, and then seeks to find a way to apply herself diligently and purposefully apart from the man she thought she couldn’t live without.

Don’t worry, I can promise happy endings for everybody.  But the journeys of this young girl, and a mill-owner struggling to survive during the Napoleonic war, and an independent heiress, and a quiet, steady schoolteacher are beautiful.  The character development is phenomenal. :)

Of Mice and Men – John Steinbeck

This book was read aloud to me and some other people by my best friend’s father.  It was a year ago, and I’m still struggling with the themes.  John Steinbeck introduces the dark, questioning side of reality… his books are, needless to say, depressing.  I have heard different opinions on Of Mice and Men, but this is definitely a read again: not necessarily because the story is so good, but because the theme is so intense, and it leaves you wondering.  There is something so raw and morbidly beautiful about the way John Steinbeck writes.  It’s effective without being overbearing.  In fact, the style is almost so simple is complicated.  A lot of modern literature is like that, I suppose.

But anyways.  Why was it on my list of favorites?   Well, it appealed to my love for morbid, tragic literature; but even more than that, I have a weakness for deep books and themes, things that make me wonder and search to find answers. :)

How The Heather Looks – Joan Bodger

Have you ever wanted to get steeped in charming tales on a winter evening, after taking a hot shower and getting in warm clothes with a cup of tea or… wassail, while sitting by the fire listening to a winter gale?

Even if you’ve never had that interesting feeling, you should still read this book.  John and Joan Bodger took their children in 1956 to spend a summer in England.  They went on a scavenger hunt, really.  They didn’t want to see all the touristy places—they were on a mission to find the bank from The Wind in the Willows, or the farm where Jemima Puddleduck lived, or the land of Arthur, the country of Randolph Caldecott.  The two children, Ian and Lucy, provide a humorous side to the story, and you encounter all sorts of things on this adventure: gypsies, two boys riding backwards on a huge farm-horse, a Cornish festival, myths, legends, mysteries, stories, and obscure tales.  She talks about books long out of print—treasures of the past.  On a rainy afternoon they stop in a quaint English/Welsh village and, being hungry, buy some bread, cheese, and fresh tomatoes for their lunch, watching the villagers go to market.  It is filled with charming descriptions, jaunts and rambles, and haunting stories that will make you want to see this wonderful place called England.

Orthodoxy – G.K. Chesterton

Alright, I said I didn’t have a favorite.  But if you want something as deep as the see, as nice as a fairy tale, and as thrilling as the novel then this is the best book.  Look at his face! He was a genius!

Orthodoxy is packed full of thought.  You could read one sentence of it and write an entire book on the subject.  He deals philosophically (and yet un-philosophically) about maniacs, pessimists, optimists, love, Christianity, Agnostics… and these are only vague ideas of what he covers.  It is an adventure to read this book.

To see the journey of a deep thinker as he battles with thoughts and ideas of Christianity that have not even entered the head of a believer is wonderful.  His method of thinking, his wit and humor, his deep faith are all woven together cleverly with a colorful thread.  I love him best because he believed in fairy tales, and anything that had to do with the nursery.  He saw so much sense and reason inside the world of fancy, and so much to laugh at with the great determinists and philosophers of his era that it’s almost shocking to read.  But you are convinced to agree with him at last!  I would recommend this book to… well, everyone.

Alright! That’s it! :) Those are my top eleven. I hope you enjoyed reading about them, and now if you haven’t read any of them, I hope that at some point you will enjoy reading them. :)

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In Which Mollie Tells A Story, And Chesterton Is Quoted, But Not Mentioned

They are the greatest of friends, Mollie and Lucie.  Their minds are like two pieces of flint: when they rub together, it produces a spark, and soon a wildfire.  This is how it happens, so often—their imaginations know no bounds.   In a walk down the street of their small town, they both see, at the same time, a doll in an antiques shop window.  It’s a porcelain doll with an old, old face that looks somehow young.  And she has clothes—old, raggedy clothes, but a clean petticoat.  Mollie and Lucie count their money, and go in and buy the porcelain doll together, because they know it has, in that one minute, meant something to both of them.  And in any of their imaginary romps, upon arriving at a paradox, they stop and say: “Let us consult the Doll.”  For it has no other name.  Other people see the doll and call it ugly, but not so Mollie and Lucie!  They d0 nothing to improve her looks, but love her as she is.

One day, a man comes to the small town were Lucie and Mollie live.  He has an old face, and it is distorted with all sorts of abuse and pain.  His smile is crooked, his teeth broken, and his legs wobble and shake underneath him as he walks.  He is despised wherever he goes for his age and ugliness.  And when Mollie and Lucie see him they don’t know what to do about him, because he looks at them with eyes that are so blue and penetrating that they cannot turn on their heels and walk away. He seems to ask them something.  And so they say to themselves: “Let us consult the Doll.”  They go to the Doll and look at her face for a long, long time, and suddenly Lucie cries: “That’s it!  He’s the doll! Or the doll is him, I’m not sure which—but I know that’s how it is!” and Mollie stares and laughs because she knows Lucie is right.  Rushing out to the street, they see the old man standing alone, and Lucie runs up to him, throwing her arms around his neck, smiling.  “Please come with us, home, to dinner, because I’ve just made an apple pie, and I need the very best of people to taste it and help me improve it.”  And Mollie insists herself, so he accepts and eats with them.  In the evening he sits by the fire, telling stories, his eyes deep and knowing, letting the beauty of his soul pour out on them, so that they feel everything and love him completely.  Lucie and Mollie return to the attic when he is gone.  They know why the doll looked so old, and yet so new.


It is because behind every seemingly old face, there is something eternal.  Something that never dies.

And that in order to love, one must first love the unlovable.

The End.

END NOTE: Mollie and Lucie are real people, real friends.  This was an impromptu story that Mollie told Lucie one night.

Is God Bored?

Well? Haven’t you ever wondered?

I always have so many things to do it’s almost impossible to be bored – and life is certainly not monotonous.  But I always wondered about God.  He created the earth.  He knows how to do everything.  He is omniscient.  He has the book of Life, he has known and planned since before the foundations of the earth.  There is nothing new to him.  Is God bored?

Are you tired of G.K. Chesterton? (Assuming negative answer.) Good.  Because I’m going to post him… again. Take a deep breath.  Let it slowly out. Close your eyes for a second and forget about your job or everything you need to do before you go to sleep tonight.  Listen to your heart beat for a moment, relax your body.  Listen to the voices of nature – the autumn wind, the wild, rasping leaves against the pavement. (I am hoping you have a window open.)  Now open your eyes, and read this.

(I had to get you calmed down enough, you see…)

All the towering materialism which dominates the modern mind rests ultimately upon one assumption; a false assumption. It is supposed that if a thing goes on repeating itself it is probably dead; a piece of clockwork. People feel that if the universe was personal it would vary; if the sun were alive it would dance. This is a fallacy even in relation to known fact. For the variation in human affairs is generally brought into them, not by life, but by death; by the dying down or breaking off of their strength or desire. A man varies his movements because of some slight alement of failure or fatigue. He gets into an omnibus because he is tired of walking; or he walks because he is tired of sitting still. But if his life and joy were so gigantic that he never tired of going to Islington, he might go to Islington as regularly as the Thames goes to Sheerness. The very speed and ecstacy of his life would have the stillness of death. The sun rises every morning. I do not rise every morning; but the variation is due not to my activity, but to my inaction. Now, to put the matter in a popular phrase, it might be true that the sun rises regularly because he never gets tired of rising. His routine might be due, not to a lifelessness, but to a rush of life. The thing I mean can be seen, for instance, in children, when they find some game or joke that they specially enjoy. A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God….”

I think that’s enough.

The End!

Just kidding.

To continue…

But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we. The repetition in Nature may not be a mere recurrence; it may be a theatrical encore. Heaven may encore the bird who laid an egg. If the human being conceives and brings forth a human child instead of bringing forth a fish, or a bat, or a griffin, the reason may not be that we are fixed in an animal fate without life or purpose. It may be that our little tragedy has touched the gods, that they admire it from their starry galleries, and that at the end of every human drama man is called again and again before the curtain. Repetition may go on for millions of years, by mere choice, and at any instant it may stop. Man may stand on the earth generation after generation, and yet each birth be his positively last appearance. (G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy, ch. IV)

Are you still breathing?  I could almost swear that when I read that for the first time I had stopped breathing for a full five minutes.  I find apologetics to be as exciting as a novel.

I do not think God’s bored.  I don’t think he wound up the earth at the beginning like a clock, and let it run its full course and then – whoop! the end! Haha! O Man, your play is ended. Thanks for the entertainment. Let’s calculate how many of you made it into heaven. Oh look! 144,000.

I don’t think he did that.

Question 11 of the Westminster Shorter Catechism puts into perspective my thoughts on how God acted after creation.

Q. What are God’s works of providence?

A. God’s works of providence are his most holy, wise, and powerful perserving and governing all his creatures and all their actions.

He didn’t wind it up like a clock and let it run.  He didn’t create it and leave it, sit back, and wonder what man would do.  Though he knows all things, though he ordains it, he yet takes an active role in the “perserving and governing” of all his creatures – not just humans – and all their actions.  His work is evident in creation.  He still makes the daisies.  I thought perhaps he must get bored making the daisies, because it must be monotonous, and there was nothing new or exciting, but there… Chesterton proved me wrong.

Earlier in the book, he says:

How can we contrive to be at once astonished at the world and yet at home in it? How can this queer cosmic town, with its many-legged citizens, with its monstrous and ancient lamps, how can this world give us at once the fascination of a strange town and the comfort and honour of being our own town?

I feel that we must look at the world this way.  God makes the daisies all alike – not because he must, but because it is his joy and delight to make all daisies alike.  He makes the sun rise every morning – not necessarily because the sun MUST rise every morning, but because he wants it to rise every morning. He has created this cycle of life, and though he could change it with no difficulty, and blow up all the scientific laws and confuse the minds of men, he doesn’t.  He runs it with skilled hands.  Remember how he made the sun stand still in the sky in Joshua?  How could he stop the cycle of life for that long? Even for three hours!  Yet he perserved creation.  “Yet we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we…”  Monotony is boredom to us, yet I believe that we should look upon the “same and old” of nature as though it were “different and new.”  Every time we see the “fields of rye, that clothe the world and meet the sky” (Tennyson) we must see it as though we had been blind at first.  We have heard of the grass, and felt it, but have never seen it’s beauty… those billions of green fingers reaching and stretching towards the sun.  For the five hundredth time, we must see it for the first time.

I used to think that everything was the same because it MUST be the same… that oaks were like oaks because God created an oak in the beginning, and now all oaks must resemble that first oak. Genetics, wot. But…What ho! Chesterton! I will take my bow, exit stage left, and allow you to take the floor.

“…I found the whole modern world talking scientific fatalism; saying that everything is as it must always have been, being unfolded without fault from the beginning. The leaf on the tree is green because it could never have been anything else. Now, the fairy-tale philosopher is glad that the leaf is green precisely because it might have been scarlet. He feels as if it had turned green an instant before he looked at it. He is pleased that snow is white on the strictly reasonable ground that it might have been black. Every colour has in it a bold quality as of choice; the red of garden roses is not only decisive but dramatic, like suddenly spilt blood. He feels that something has been done. But the great determinists of the nineteenth century were strongly against this native feeling that something had happened an instant before. In fact, according to them, nothing ever really had happened since the beginning of the world. Nothing ever had happened since existence had happened; and even about the date of that they were not very sure.

I feel as though our world is too rushed to feel the excitement and beauty of the green, green earth.  We get up in the morning, sometimes feeling like slugs, and we don’t notice the fresh wind, or the autumn rain, or the warm sun, or the delirium of colors in the world.  After a time, if our conscience really gets to us, we might say “Good morning” to people.  Yet, putting aside all convention and politeness, perhaps we could reach the point at which we say “good morning” because we feel that it MUST be a good morning.  We have taken the time to recognize the joy of a new day, of a fresh start.  We have stirred up our cup of determination and cheerfulness, with which we will face the so called drudgeries and hardships that might come later on.  And amidst the rush of life, we might occasionally stop, and we will start laughing with joy because the sky is blue!  And at thanksgiving, we might thank God for the reds and oranges and golds of the leaves – for his perserving and governing all his creatures and all his actions.

Here are five things that I am convinced people need to do on a regular basis:

  1. Think
  2. Dance
  3. Sing
  4. Dream
  5. Pray

All of those things can contain many sub-categories, but in their essence, they are important.  Thinking deeply through things helps us to understand and appreciate.  Dancing helps cleanse you of any pessimistic parasites lurking in your soul.  Singing does much the same thing – it is an outburst of joy, or of sorrow.  Dreaming makes the world go round, I am convinced, because dreams determine who we are, what our pursuits are, and how we will live.  Praying is the most important of all.  Through prayer our faith is strengthened.  Through prayer our trust is placed out of earthly things and into Christ.  And thus, through prayer, we do not have to be anxious about anything, and we can sing, dance and dream.

Alright, I am done.  But I’m sure that’s not the last you’ll be hearing of G.K. Chesterton…

Tea With Lewis and Chesterton… and Alice

I can just picture it.  Lewis and Chesterton are having tea, talking about the impossibility of the reality the world is talking about, and the probability of greater morals existing in other worlds.  They both turn, Chesterton has a marmelade roll Lewis has brought with him halfway to his mouth.  Lewis’s teacup is suspended three inches above the saucer.  Both of them smile at the little blonde-haired girl next to them.  “What do you think, Alice? Do you think everything in Wonderland is impossible?”  And Alice probably said no, she didn’t.

And Chesterton would smile approvingly and continue complimenting Lewis on the “excellent marmelade,” and Lewis would nod and smile and begin observing how the world would be much better off if all little children were like Alice.

Reality.  The word used to hit me in the face.  I used to think of something covering up or tinting my passion for beauty.  When I thought of the stars, or flowers, or mountains, or love I got excited… My imagination felt alive.  I felt alive.  But then the word came—reality—and I felt guilty for thinking of those things.  It seemed as though reality was something that covered up the stars… something that made love seem “idealistic”… unreal…  Impossible—something people only dreamed of.  To me, reality seemed like finishing highschool at seventeen or eighteen. Going to college for 4+ years. Pursuing a career.  Maybe getting married between 27 and 35.  Maybe have a kid.  Maybe two.

Then I had a realization.  I suppose that means I came to terms with reality.  Reality is now my friend.  Facts and reality coincide… to an extent.  I see the flowers.  I can touch them, feel them, smell them.  There are flowers—that, in fact, is reality.  Reality isn’t something blurring the stars… it is the stars.  As for love, it’s the most realistic thing I can think of.  I was quite wrong in thinking there is no beauty in reality.  You could say that reality is beautiful, or that Beauty is reality, for there is a God.  Or it might be better to say that God is.  That is reality, because that is a fact. I was reading C.S. Lewis’s book Mere Christianity and I was struck by something he said towards the beginning.  Before now, I had never really thought about the existence of God being a fact. I thought that because not everyone believes in God, it couldn’t be a fact.  If I had thought seriously about this, I would have slapped myself very hard for that philosophy.  If I didn’t believe in God—why, my life would be the unrealistic one.

“If the universe was really without meaning, we should have never found that it has no meaning: just as, if there were no light in the universe, and therefore no creatures with eyes, we should have never known it was dark. Darkwould be a word without meaning.” Further back he says: “My argument against God was that the universe seemed so cruel and unjust. But how had I got the idea of just and unjust? A man does not call a line crooked unless he has some idea of a straight line. What was I comparing this universe with when I called it unjust? If the whole show was bad and senseless from A to Z, so to speak, why did I, who was supposed to be a part of the show, find myself in such violent reaction against it?” [Mere Christianity, book 2 chapter 1.]

It is so interesting to read how Lewis himself sees and describes how, when he was an Atheist, in the very act of proving that there is no God, he was proving that there is a God.  (I love reading Lewis—Mere Christianity is brilliant, and he’s really a fantastic writer.  When I read his fiction, I feel like I’m sitting right next to him, and he’s telling the story.  When I read his apologetics, I feel as though I am standing right there, arguing in a friendly way with him.)

Is reality, in fact, something cold and hard that you land on when you’re head is in the clouds?  Is the logician right when he says Wonderland is irrational and senseless?  It’s not just wonderland.  When I use this word, I am referring to any fantasie. (As opposed to fantasy—spelled with a y.)

Fantasie means more than Twilight or Harry Potter. (Sorry to any fans out there.)  It refers the beauty of mind and soul… the world in our subconscious, all things beautiful and imagined.  Things are only impossible when they cannot be imagined.  All possibility is contained within imagination.

If a child actually wondered if the moon were made of cheese, is it really impossible?  Perhaps the logician would say: “Yes, it is; cheese is made from curds.  It goes through a certain process, and it is impossible that there could be enough cows even in the world to make enough cheese to fill a moon.”  But the child has already had the idea.  The idea has become a possibility.  There is a certain amount of logic that must be combined in the imagination.  For instance, as soon as the possibility has been birthed with the idea, one must find out if the possibility is real.  For all we know, God might have made the moon out of cheese.  And he still could.  And once you admit that, you denounce the word “impossible.”

I have never seen a blue talking and smoking caterpillar.  I have never seen the Jabberwocky.  But because I have never seen them I can’t say that they don’t exist.  It simply hasn’t been proved to me that they don’t.

If there is a law that pick-pockets shall go to prison, it implies that there is an imaginable mental connection between the idea of prison and the idea of picking pockets. And we know what the idea is. We can say why we take liberty from a man who takes liberties. But we cannot say why an egg can turn into a chicken any more than we can say why a bear could turn into a fairy prince.  As ideas, the egg and the chicken are further off from each other than the bear and the prince; for no egg in itself suggests a chicken, whereas some princes do suggest bears.  Granted, then, that certain transformations do happen, it is essential that we should regard them in the philosophic manner of fairy tales, not in the unphilosophic manner of science and the “Laws of Nature.” When we are asked why eggs turn to birds or fruits fall in autumn, we must answer exactly as the fairy godmother would answer if Cinderella asked her why mice turned to horses or her clothes fell from her at twelve o’clock. We must answer that it is magic. It is not a “law,” for we do not understand its general formula.  It is not a necessity, for though we can count on it happening practically, we have no right to say that it must always happen… We risk the remote possibility of a miracle as we do that of a poisoned pancake or a world-destroying comet.  We leave it out of account, not because it is a miracle, and therefore an impossibility, but because it is a miracle, and therefore an exception. All the terms used in the science books, “law,” “necessity,” “order,” “tendency,” and so on, are really untinellectual, because they assume an inner synthesis, which we do not possess. The only words that ever satisfied me as describing Nature are the terms used in the fairy books, “charm,” “spell,” “enchantment.” They express the arbitrariness of the fact and its mystery. A tree grows fruit because it is a magic tree. Water runs downhill because it is bewitched.  The sun shines because it is bewitched. – G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy, Chapter IV

I had to try very hard not to type out the whole book just now. I think he has a point.  In his book Orthodoxy, Chesterton cleverly combines logic and fantasie in a wonderful way.  He makes fantasie a reality, and reality a fantasie.  Is there anything blasphemous about saying a tree grows because it is magic?  No, there is not.  Because a tree does not grow by any law or power of our own.  It grows by a supernatural power, something altogether outside of our understanding.

So why should the world of dreams and imagination and idealism be praised?

There is a flow to history and culture. This flow is rooted and has its wellspring in the thoughts of people. People are unique in the inner life of the mind —what they are in their thought world determines how they act.  This is true of their value systems and it is true of their creativity. It is true of their corporate actions, such as political decisions, and it is true of their personal lives. The results of their thought world flow through their fingers or from their tongues into the external world. This is true of Michelangelo’s chisel, and it is true of a dictator’s sword. – Francis A. Schaeffer, How Should We Then Live? Chapter I.

Because it determines how we live.  It is not only the imaginative person who has a thought world.  Even the mathematician (I am very unjust towards mathematicians) has a thought world.  Even in his logical mind there are thoughts that determine his actions.  I’m sure even he has had dreams at night about yellow rabbits eating chinese takeouts. (Sorry – bit tired here.) But at any rate, think of what the world would be like if everybody was a logician.  We would all be the same.  Where’s the fun in that?  What if everybody was an idealist? Everybody would be the same – still no fun.  And note – idealist here does not mean Sir-Thomas-More-Utopia-Idealism.  Or Avatar, for that matter.

Napoleon Bonaparte had dreams.  Most people would have called him idealistic, but he almost succeeded in becoming the emperor of the world. He almost made his dream a reality.  The world was thrown into chaos because of one man.  His dreams, his thoughts, his idealism helped shape the world.

Fairy tales might be the most realistic thing on earth. Why? Because a true fairy tale always has a knight-in-shining-armor, always a damsel in distress, always a dragon or evil witch or king of some sort.  Why is this realistic?  Because Christ is the knight-in-shining armor, the Church is the damsel in distress, and the dragon is the devil.  The consequence of the dragon is the judgement that’s inevitable unless a savior comes to save her from the thing she cannot save herself from.  That is why fairy tales are realistic. And if they are, reality is no longer a stone wall you walk into when you think you’re walking on clouds.

Makes me think of love.  Is love idealistic? Yes, because it ought to be.  Idealistic because true love is perfect.  The love on this earth that is exchanged between people is warped and shadowed by sin.  Yet, in marriage vows you will hear the phrase: “Love her as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.”  Perhaps our view on love is a bit irrational.  Love itself is not a fraud; it is the idea that depraved humans came up with and accompany love with that is a fraud.   If you read Ezekiel 16 you will see that love is not about obsessing over someone, or even saying: “I love you.”  It’s a sacrifice.  It’s a sacrifice of life, on the part of a perfect person, for a person who’s wronged again and again.  Love is a covenant.  And a covenant is more holy and sacred and beautiful than any kiss in the moonlight.

Lots of rabbit trails here.  Where were we?

If J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis were such great thinkers, then why did they write fantasie?  If G.K. Chesterton was such a great writer and thinker, why did he uphold fairy tales?  Because fantasie reflects the world we live in today.  There might not be a Jabberwocky, but there is a president Obama. (Okay, sorry.)  You might not find someone by the name of Sauron here but you will find someone very, very similar.  That great Being who created middle-earth and spun melodies out of the stars, Iluvatar, might not be found by that name here, but you will find Him, certainly, if you search for him.

Idealism is not something to be scorned.  It is something to be admired.  The pursuit of perfection exists, though perhaps that pursuit ends in heaven, when we are fully sanctified.  Reality is beautiful, and idealism is beautiful.  But you cannot have one without the other in order for them to be beautiful. Idealism, as we understand it, becomes foppish and empty.  Realism, the logician’s world, without idealism, because hard and empty.  There must be a perfect blend.

To accept everything is an exercise, to understand everything a strain. The poet only desires exaltation and expansion, a world to stretch himself in. The poet only asks to get his head into the heavens. It is the logician who seeks to get the heavens into his head. And it is his head that splits. – Orthodoxy, chapter II.

Belief must come without explanation.  If Christianity could be understood, there would be no reason to believe.  The whole point of belief is that you must put your faith in something you are absolutely certain of, but that is not fully explained.  Because Christianity isn’t.  There is a degree of mystery, a depth of understanding that is beyond our human comprehension.  If I understood that, they would have to add a fourth person to the Trinity.

That is why it is a hundred times easier for a child—who still maintains the child-like imagination and simple faith— to believe that God created the earth out of nothing than for the scientist.  Yet how beautiful it is when the scientist, logician, and mathematician all lay aside their stuff about laws and impossibilities and believe with the same child-like faith this truth.

So why do I like Alice in Wonderland? Book and movie? Because the idea of something different – of oversized mushrooms and flowers with faces, of smoking caterpillars and mad March hares and a mad hatter – appeals to me.

Even in the physical appearance of the story, the colors and shapes provide such an artistic picture that’s different from things you see in this earth.  It astonishes me, yet it’s not surprising.  I love it, and who can say it’s impossible? I saw it – just the other night.  And I’ve read about it numerous times.  I can’t really get in my car and go there, but I can draw up mental images.  In my thought world I have already made friends with the March Hare (who is one of my favorite characters.) And our relationship is one of the quirkiest, oddest things you’ve ever seen.

I also maintain that dead people are the most interesting ones to talk to.  I would also say that while people alive on this earth are walking around and doing things, dead people understand everything and have a greater level of brilliance because they are dead.  I am jealous of them, because they have seen, as soon as they are dead, the whole value of living.  They know where they are right, and where they are wrong.

I wonder – would Chesterton, now that he is dead, still hold to everything he said in Orthodoxy?  Would Lewis wish The Chronicles of Narnia unpublished?  Would J.R.R. Tolkien still think about Lord of the Rings as though that world actually existed in some form?  Well, I would hope that they would, because I think that they’re absolutely right.

The Night My Daddy Played Me To Sleep

On the way home from a vacation in Delaware yesterday, I got through a good middle portion of Dostoevsky’s “The Idiot.”  I only just thought of this correlation between something in there and something I was feeling almost a week ago.   Dostoevsky had gone into a description of a certain feeling that “the Idiot” or Prince Myshkin felt before an attack of epilepsy.  Before the utter darkness descended upon his mind and soul, a bright joy would flood through him, and everything would be intensified, so that he felt an overwhelming gladness.  That does not do justice to what the author was getting across, but it says something.  This feeling lasted about half a second, then the fit would seize him, and he would be plunged into the fit of epilepsy.

Last week I was trying to go to sleep.  It had been a long day, and I hadn’t slept well in awhile.  But for the life of me, I couldn’t sleep, yet I was too tired to get up and do anything.  I lay there for a long time, and I felt like I didn’t have the strength to fight against a darkness that I felt was creeping over my mind.  One might call it depression.  Probably the result of not enough sleep.  We were going to leave the next day for Delaware where, before we hit the beach, dad had a concert at a Presbyterian church in Wilmington.  I felt depressed and closed in by life, almost suffocated by it.  I wanted to be free of something – but I couldn’t quite grasp what it was I wanted to be free from.  I didn’t know – and that was half that darkness – not knowing.  So I lay there, becoming more and more depressed, and feeling more and more trapped and sleepless.  The windows in the room were open, and after about an hour or two I heard music from far away (it sounded like) coming in through the window.  I listened for awhile, and realized it was daddy, practicing for his concert.  Some of the songs I had never heard before – I didn’t even know he had written them.  But I heard him playing and it calmed me.  It distracted me from darker thoughts and made me think about the music.   Then after awhile he played a song he wrote called “Credo,” which has a Latin sounding theme.  I listened to him sing, and actually thought about the words.

I don’t remember exactly how the verses go, but the chorus is like this:

“Hallelujah! His love is all around me

In love he sought and found me

His death my victory

Hallelujah! His Spirit breaks my fetters

His Word is Truth, His Truth has set me free!”

Well that struck a note.  “His spirit breaks my fetters…” and “His truth has set me free…” Talk about God’s timing!  I realized I didn’t need to be bogged down with life and the fear and hardships that come with it.  I had been called to something higher than that, something more holy.  I had already been set free from my bondage – what I was feeling then was an illusion.  There were no fetters, I was not in a prison.  I was free from this world of sin because Christ died for me.

“Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends.” (John 15:13)

That verse is my freedom right there.  Because of his great love for me, because of his choice, I have been freed from this bondage of sin and darkness, from the judgement I deserved, and I have been given a higher calling, something more beautiful, utterly pure and holy.

“Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. What you have learned and received and heard and seen in me—practice these things, and the God of peace will be with you.” (Phil. 4:8,9)

These subjects of thought point out my way for me.  They show me how I should act, what I should say, where I should go.

Daddy was singing the chorus again.

“His death my victory…”

“His Word is Truth His Truth has set me free…”

“Rejoice in hope…” (Romans 12:12)  I was meant to rejoice in hope… There was hope.  A pervading light in the midst of the gulf of darkness.  And in that light I was meant to rejoice.  It was my Hope.  It was and is and will be my salvation, for that Hope is Christ.

And now looking back, Dostoevsky’s description of what the Prince felt before his fit of epilepsy almost exactly describes what I was feeling.  There came a great joy, a complete contentment and peace.  It did not mean that trials or trouble were absent or far away, but that I felt the freedom of the Spirit.  And yet, even my freedom was the sweetest bondage.  I was free of the world of sin and darkness, yet I was a slave of light and righteousness.

And in the midst of these thoughts, my daddy played on… and on.  I listened to him until he stopped, and I felt quiet and serene. A heaviness came about me, and a few minutes later I was plunged into a deep sleep, with those very thoughts on my mind….

“His Spirit breaks my fetters…

“His Word is Truth, His Truth has set me free…”

A Piece of Random

Hullo, world….

I like watching people’s reactions.

I’m visiting my grandma for a couple weeks in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania.  It can, most of the time, be my heaven on earth.  I love the blue lines of the mountains, and the pine-air, the cool mornings, the small town… Nana had some new neighbors a few weeks ago.  A family from Colorado.  They have two little girls – Alysa and Rebekah.  I ran over there today to see if they could go to the park (Nana wanted to show them the Lewisburg park) but they were engaged in vivacious games with their grandma.  However, I got talking with the mother.

“Now, do you have a younger sibling?”

Me: (smiling) “No, actually, I have seven.”

I love watching the reaction to that. The wide eyes… the open mouth… the surprised stare for a moment.  The thought rushing through their mind: “How does her mother do it!?” And my mother is great.  No one would guess she had eight kids.

“Seven!”

“Yes!”

“All younger than you?”

“No, I have an older brother who’s married, and an older sister who’s getting married in October. Then there’s five after me.”

“Ah – your sister – was that who the bridal shower was for?”

And gradually we got on to other topics.  When I started walking back down the street again I had the sudden urge to run.  I felt happy after the conversation, for some reason… I wanted to laugh and dance in spite of exhaustion and stress.  I wanted to laugh all the troubles in the world to dust.  I wanted to say: “I don’t care! It’s a perfect day!”

There’s something beautiful about a summer evening, isn’t there? A summer evening and good food.  I am a lover of good foods – of culinary art.  Last night for dinner my uncle made stuffed portobello mushrooms – the said grilled fungi stuffed with tomato, ricotta cheese, herbs, and from what I could tell, mozzarella cheese.  Second we had grilled pork.  It was juicy – tender – oh so good.  Thirdly we had grilled chicken, in an apricot-jelly marinade.  The food was delicious.  The presentation was simple, but pleasant and enjoyable.  To top it off, we had dark chocolate and sorbet.  I am ever interested in food.  Tonight Nana mentioned we might have hamburgers, with grilled zucchini, and swiss chard. I put myself in charge of the hamburgers.   I had a pound of meat to work with.  I chopped up some fresh tomatoes real small and tossed them in with some capers, pepper, salt, oregano, thyme, and a little grated mozzarella cheese.  Then I put some dijon mustard in, kneaded it like bread so it was all mixed together, and then cut it in quarters.  Each one of these quarters made a burger. I made a dent in two, and filled them with mozzarella cheese, and put the other half on like a top!  There! Two half pound burgers!

At the dinner table, Nana and I each congratulated each other on our splendid culinary skills.  We were each impressed by how good everything tasted.  I am not a huge fan of zucchini but oh my! Grilled in strips with a coat of olive oil, pepper, salt and oregano – I loved it.  We didn’t expect to eat our 1/2 pound burgers – even though we had decided to nix the hamburger buns – and neither of us were starving.  But those burgers disappeared.  They were good.  My aunt had a similar recipe and I used that for a basis.  What do you think – should I put a page of favorite recipes on this blog?

I have been reading to Nana.  In honor of her name, we’ve been reading Shirley by Charlotte Bronte.  Actually we only just started today, but she loves the story and keeps me reading to her – it’s good!  I stumbled a lot at first – I normally read fast on my own, and got ahead of myself – but it’s good practice… Someday I’ll have to read aloud quite often to a little audience of young children.

But dear friends, I must share with you something in that book.  Bronte has dived into a character description of a man who lacks “the organs of Veneration, Comparison, Benevolence, and Ideality.” She goes into a description of each… but the one that caught my ear the fullest was the one on Ideality.

As to the paucity of ideality in his mind, that can scarcely be called a fault: a fine ear for music, a correct eye for colour and form, left him the quality of taste; and who cares for imagination? Who does not think it a rather dangerous, senseless attribute – akin to weakness – perhaps partaking of frenzy – a disease rather than a gift of the mind?

Probably all think it so, but those who possess – or fancy they possess – it. To hear them speak, you would believe that their hearts would be cold if that elixir did not flow about them; that their eyes would be dim if that flame did not refine their vision; that they would be lonely if this strange companion abandoned them. You would suppose that it imparted some glad hope to spring, some fine charm to summer, some tranquil joy to autumn, some consolation to winter, which you do not feel. All illusion, of course; but the fanatics cling to their dream, and would not give it for gold.

There was something so beautiful in this, that I paused after I read it.  I smiled.  Yes, that was me.  The fanatic who clings to the dream.  I wish I had G.K. Chesterton’s book Orthodoxy with me… These paragraphs reminded me much of something I read in there. It went something like: “It is the logician who seeks to get the heavens in his head, while the poet merely attempts to get his head in the heavens.”  Two very different things.  Point being, in the end, it’s the logician who’s mad – the poet who’s free.

Anyways, something I came across that I thought you might enjoy. :)

Ah – something else I must share…. Vituperate.  ‘Tis a word, and you must look it up if you don’t know what it means.  I laughed so hard when I read it – it gave me good humor for the rest of the day.

Have you ever been so exhausted – so tired – but you feel absolutely beautiful?  That’s how I feel right now.  I get to sleep in a little white bed with sheets that were dried on the clothesline in the pine-air! I am truly excited about this.  What is it about fresh sheets?  I feel as though they world had begun again, as though there were no mistakes.  I feel like fresh sheets signify a new start.  A new beginning!  I’m basking in the beauty of the life God’s given.  There’s too much beauty to be depressed by the troubles – alas! sometimes I don’t even realize it.  Why must we wallow in the dirt when we could be dancing in a kings palace?  A strange analogy, I know… but if we would only be willing to see, we could find beauty – God’s beauty – we could find God himself! We could find Hope, and hope would banish the fear in our hearts! We might love, we might sing and dance!  We might appear mad to the whole world, but we would be the only sane people.

Anne of the Island: Reality versus Idealism

I finished Anne of the Island, jumped off the couch, stomped my way into the kitchen and exclaimed in a weird voice: “I’LL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN!”  And I do believe I won’t.  I always say that after I’m particularly affected by something in a book.

I love the themes that played out in this book.  Anne’s desire to go to school and finish her education, homesickness and last but not least, the battle between idealism and a true sense of reality.

Anne’s reality was very beautiful because… why? Oh, because it was Gilbert.  But she didn’t think so at first, because her ideals got in the way.  It happens to everyone, I’m pretty sure.  We create ideals for a work position, a marriage partner, a lifestyle etc.  However, when our ideals aren’t fulfilled, we’re left dissatisfied and empty, because there’s no joy left to embrace the beauty in the reality that we have.  Anne’s ideal man: tall, handsome, poetical, melancholy…. It sounds nice, doesn’t it? Gilbert is tall, hardly melancholy, humorous, and appreciative of literature and poetry but not drowning in the romance of it.  He’s almost the complete opposite of Anne’s ideal.  He’s just a chum.

Sometimes that’s how I look at things.  I refuse to see the aspects I might benefit from in a friendship, in a job or in an education.  So here comes the catch.  Though there may be something I need, I don’t see it because of what I want, and what I think I need.  There is a God in the heavens, who knows me so well, knows me so much better than I know myself, that He also knows exactly what I need, in a job, in a friend, in school, in marriage, in every aspect and situation of life.  This is what Anne found out.  Royal Gardner was everything she ever wanted.

So, Anne rejects poor Gilbert, who hides his disappointment and strives to “get over her” (not happening) as best he can.  “Roy” shows up, and Anne falls head over heels for him.  But why, when Roy proposes, does Anne say no, when she had every intention of saying yes?  She realized at that critical moment that Roy wasn’t what she needed.  The horrible emptiness she felt after Gilbert “ceased to be a friend” nagged at her mind, but she was still confused.  The only thing she felt right about was refusing Roy, and she felt at peace about it.  She realized what she needed and wanted all along when that thing was about to be snatched out of her life forever.  I’d say this was impeccable timing, wouldn’t you?

But don’t go and throw idealism out the window.  Just because Anne realized she didn’t need her ideal doesn’t mean she should go and marry Charlie Sloane, for instance.  Don’t shoot low, just because you can’t obtain the perfection of your ideals.  Strive for the best, but don’t just settle on something.  Even in striving for the best, ideals might get in the way.  Ideals are things that are good and dangerous at the same time.  Don’t ignore them, but don’t build your life on them. It’s confusing, isn’t it? Someday I’ll devote a whole blog post on the subject.

Anne’s friend, Philippa Gordon, goes through much the same thing.  She had her ideals… a rich man, a good name, handsome.  She ended up marrying a man who loved every bit of her, who could see underneath her mask of frivolity into her inner soul and love it.  He was poor, a minister and she described him as ugly.  But she could see into his soul, and that made him beautiful to her.  All of the sudden, her ideals came crashing down as well.

A melancholy part enters about the middle of the book.  Anne’s childhood friend, Ruby Gillis, dies of consumption.  Terrified, she faces death with the idea that the next world will be totally different.  She feels scared, unprepared, and “different,” as though she wouldn’t fit in.  She spent the whole of her life doing absolutely nothing of importance, nothing that could be commended of her at her death.  After Ruby confides to Anne her fears regarding her fast approaching death, I came upon this interesting and all too true passage:

“Anne walked home very slowly in the moonlight. The evening had changed something for her. Life held a different meaning, a deeper purpose. On the surface it would go on just the same; but the deeps had been stirred. It must not be with her as with poor butterfly Ruby. When she came to the end of one life it must not be to face the next with the shrinking terror of something wholly different—something for which accustomed thought and ideal and aspiration had unfitted her. The little things of life, sweet and excellent in their place, must not be the things lived for; the highest must be sought and followed; the life of heaven must be begun here on earth.”

Do I say too much in these posts? I can never decide when to stop.

Just one more thing.

When Anne leaves for college, she crosses the same body of water in the same boat that carried her to Prince Edward Island when she was eleven or twelve.  She had first crossed it, expecting a change in her life for the better.  The old life, with its run-down families and asylums would be gone forever, and this would begin the next epoch of her life.  For seven or eight years, she had not stirred from the Island.  She had been contented with her life; her character had been honed; friends had been made.  Things had stayed the same.  But after she leaves for her first year of college, things start to change.  Not in routine, or lifestyle, but in experience, and wisdom, and feeling.  Avonlea felt different to her when she visited, almost as though she were a stranger.  And it’s true that places we live that we learn to love are just resting stops.  We move on, eventually, and though they still remain dear, we change, and we move on.  It’s a bit sad, but it’s a bit of life as well.

I hope I’m not boring you…

Anne of Avonlea: Girlhood versus Womanhood

Dear Readers :)

These Anne posts are by far my very favorite.  I love thinking through what I’m going to say, and watch the thoughts and ideas take shape in my mind.  My soul thrills when I read these books, no exaggeration.

I quote: “I love Anne of Avonlea because of just the beauty and wonder of a girl going form girlhood to womanhood…” Hayley said this in reply to my question of what her favorite Anne book was.  This flow is caught very much through the book, and the simple, girlish dreams quietly submerge into womanly ideas.

“Friendship is very beautiful,” smiled Mrs. Allan, “but some day…” Then she paused abruptly. In the delicate, whitebrowed face beside her, with its candid eyes and mobile features, there was still far more of the child than of the woman.  Anne’s heart so far harbored only dreams of friendship and ambition, and Mrs. Allan did not wish to brush the bloom from her sweet unconsciousness. So she left her sentence for future years to continue.

The sense of Anne’s girlhood is very strong throughout these pages.  Though she’s mature, a little wiser, and a little more sensible, she’s still… well, a girl.  But look at the end.

“.…it was as if a veil that had hung before her inner consciousness had been lifted, giving to her view a revelation of unsuspected feelings and realities. …. Then the veil dropped again; but the Anne who walked up the dark lane was not quite the same Anne who had driven gaily down it the evening before. The page of girlhood had been turned, as by an unseen finger, and the page of womanhood was before her with all its charm and mystery, its pain and gladness.

I sometimes feel as though I’m turning the page from girlhood to womanhood… and then I turn the page back to re-read something, or do something I missed… it’s that hovering stage.  I’m not really a girl anymore, but I’m not quite a woman.

Another thing that struck me was the change in Diana and Anne’s friendship.  Their relationship didn’t fall out, but there was a slight sifting of ground.  It’s when Diana becomes engaged.  Anne says to herself once or twice that she can’t tell Diana “this or that” because “she’ll be sure to tell Fred.  I know, because she tells him everything.”  Far from grudging Diana for this, Anne seems content to keep some of her thoughts to herself.  However, she says: “Oh, I think these engagements are dreadfully unsettling things when they happen to your intimate friends.”  Amen, sistahh!  This again is another change from “Anne the girl” to “Anne the woman.”  As little girls, we love anything that has to do with an engagement, or a wedding.  At that young age, it’s hard to sense the change that comes in a close friendship.  I can understand Anne perfectly in this, because I have three or four very close friends now who are either married or getting prepared for their weddings.  You still continue to love that person to death, but aspects of your friendship change.  You feel a bit lonelier than before, a bit more by yourself.  It’s not a bad thing, but sometimes it can be a hard thing, and part of this is what helps Anne turn the page to womanhood.

Gilbert makes me laugh. And smile.  And cry.  Well, maybe not the last one.  But I love reading about the parts where he talks to Anne.  He’s always on the verge of saying something sentimental, and then “wisely” holds his tongue. And then sometimes he slips, and Anne punishes him in some way, but he plays off her punishment so she only feels the sting of it.  It’s so lovely, and so funny, and I wonder if a man is really like that at all.  Gilbert said something at the end that is an absolute reflection of his relationship with Anne—past, present and future.  It had to do with the Miss Lavender romance. (I love Miss Lavender.  If ever I am an old maid, I will be just like her.)

Anne says: “Isn’t it beautiful to think how everything has turned out…how they have come together again after all the years of separation and misunderstanding?”

“Yes, it’s beautiful,” said Gilbert, looking steadily down into Anne’s uplifted face, [I love the height difference here…] “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?”

I am pretending through this series that I don’t know what happens with regards to Anne and Gilbert, but I suppose I’ll break off of that for just one moment.  Like Miss Lavender and Stephen Irving, Anne and Gilbert had a quarrel.  But unlike Miss Lavender, Anne finally decided to break down her pride and “forgive and forget.”  Unlike Stephen Irving, Gilbert stuck around and when Anne was quite ready to forgive, he was

ready to receive forgiveness.  (This is disregarding that space of about a year or so where Gilbert and Anne ignored each other’s existence mutually.)

Because of meal of humble pie both Anne and Gilbert partook of early on, they opened the road to a life where they would walk “hand in hand all the way through life, with no memories behind them but those which belonged to each other.”

Beautiful, wonderful book, full of wisdom… and mischief…

I love Davy Keith.  He is by far my favorite character (apart from Anne and Gilbert) of the series.  I love his mischief, his questions.  He is the epitome of a little boy, he asks all the questions everybody thinks.  “Anne, where is heaven? I want to know.”  And his devotion to food and mud.  He’s a perfect mischief maker, and he makes himself adorable.  Dora, his twin, is prim and proper and does everything the right way but she’s less lovable.  It’s quite funny. :)

By the way, Hayley has written her Anne post at head in the clouds. You should go check it out, I thoroughly enjoyed reading it, and it was very, very insightful. :)