On this beautiful day reminiscent of great glories, allow me to post a bare few thoughts on my latest read.

64. Anne’s House of Dreams by L.M. Montgomery. A beautiful book. Reading this, I am struck by the feeling that this seems as if a labor of love for the author, one that she much enjoyed even as she indulged herself in writing about things of beauty and love and sorrow and loss. I could be wrong in that, but this definitely has the feel of a book the author wrote for herself. The language in this book rises to new heights and there are some passages in it which fairly soar. The colours are vivid, the imagery is soul-achingly beautiful, the emotions are almost more than the heart can bear. It may just be the time and place in which I am writing these words, but I found this book more poignant than ever. I imagine myself now sitting on the rocky shoreline with the sea spray in my face as I watch the sun set slowly over the grey horizon and I breathe deep of the scent of springtime’s bloom. I love this one.