Bokelskere.no

“We’ve never really committed to the full Lucy Maud Montgomery experience,” I say. “Maybe we should get Anne and Diana wigs. Straw hats. Raspberry cordial. Take a carriage ride in pinafores.”
“No fucking way. But I’ll allow a trip to Green Gables.”
“Really?” We went there during my first visit, but I would have gone back multiple times if Bridget hadn’t vetoed me. I keep my map of PEI in a glass-sided box on my desk at home. I’ve circled the places Bridget and I visited, keeping track of what I wanted to see next time. Anticipating the island was almost as sweet as being here.

We park at the end of a red dirt road, take a path through the dunes, onto the beach. It’s as breathtaking as it was when I first saw it. Red sandstone cliffs rising high above the sand. Caves and crevices, carved by the Atlantic, shaped by wind. Swishing grasses and soaring gulls. I still can’t get over how massive it is. I knew PEI had beaches, but I hadn’t known they had beaches like this.

Fields roll past. Vibrant green rows of potato plants and blinding yellow canola crops. White churches, orange barns, dappled ponies, and grazing cattle. Quaint country communities. Hunter River, Hazel Grove, Pleasant Valley, Kensington. Some are little more than signs on the highway.

To riddere møttes til duell, en gangster med pistol robbet en bank, en liten mann med hatt og stokk ble jaget av politiet. Mens han flyktet, fulgte kameraet ham nedover gaten, slik at man som tilskuer måtte holde seg fast for å ikke bli revet med og miste balansen.

Jeg ser på skjermen. Ser meg selv, at jeg ser i en vilkårlig retning – naturligvis, skjermen er jo ikke kameraet, man må se inn i kamera for å se seg selv ut fra skjermen, bare at man jo ikke kan se seg selv da, fordi man ser inn i kamera og ikke på skjermen. Og nå viser skjermen, selv om den jo viser meg, samtidig noe annet, og for ikke å se det, lukker jeg øynene, men det hjelper ikke, og jeg ser dem ennå: svarthvite mennesker i en konsertsal. Høyt oppe fra ser jeg ned på dem, som om jeg flyr, en lysekrone stråler, jeg sitter ved siden av kameraet på bommen oppe i en høy kran, alle ser fremover, for de har ikke lov til å heve blikket.

‘I didn’t think this was that big of a deal,’ he said softly. ‘I genuinely didn’t think it was the sort of thing you’d get yourself into trouble over, I just thought it was... a way of defining yourself.’
‘It is,’ I said. ‘It defines me and it is me. It’s not a badge I can take on and off. It’s me twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I have to think about that part of myself all the time.’
‘All the time?’ He looked at me, eyebrows furrowed.
‘All the time,’ I repeated.

‘How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a book! – When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.’

Vi oppdaget at frihet var en fest bare på gaten, mens det i virkeligheten var noe helt annet. Frihet er en lunefull blomst, den kan ikke vokse opp hvor som helst, av ingenting. Bare av våre drømmer og illusjoner.

Barn blir besatt av sin egen vekst og egne ambisjoner, og de glemmer at foreldrene deres også en gang var barn som vokste opp og bygde seg et liv.

Etter krangelen skulle hun legge Ruth, synge en liten sang fra hjemlandet for henne, og det ville oppstå et dalsøkk i krangelen mellom henne og Mathijs. Men senere kom de til å fortsette og ikke slutte før de la seg, når alle de harde ordene ville ha gjort dem triste og hudløse, og morgengryet ville allerede lyse i sprekkene i persiennene, og en av dem ville endelig strekke seg etter den andre, famlende fra et stumt sjeledyp der de alltid trengte hverandre.

Ethvert menneske burde en gang iblant stille seg opp foran speilet, for eksempel en gang i uken, se seg selv inni øynene og spørre sitt eget speilbilde: Er jeg et snilt menneske? Ønsker jeg det beste for mine medmennesker? Eller for kommende generasjoner? Bidrar jeg til å verne om livsmangfoldet på min egen planet?
Og speilet svarer. Så sant vi ikke viker med blikket, stirrer øynene i speilet tilbake på oss selv.

"That's beautiful, isn't, it, Mistress Blythe? But I wish you could have seen the sunrise this morning. It was a wonderful thing – wonderful. I've seen all kinds of sunrises come over that gulf. I've been all over the world, Mistress Blythe, and take it all in all, I've never seen a finer sight than a summer sunrise over the gulf. A man can't pick his time for dying, Mistress Blythe – jest got to go when the Great Captain gives His sailing orders. But if I could I'd go out when the morning comes across that water. I've watched it many a time and thought what a thing it would be to pass out through that great white glory to whatever was waiting beyant, on a sea that ain't mapped out on any airthly chart. I think, Mistress Blythe, that I'd find lost Margaret there."

All in all, it was a never-to-be-forgotten summer – one of those summers which come seldom into any life, but leave a rich heritage of beautiful memories in their going – one of those summers which, in a fortunate combination of delightful weather, delightful friends and delightful doings, come as near to perfection as anything can come in this world

The last day of the old year was one of those bright, cold, dazzling winter days, which bombard us with their brilliancy, and command our admiration but never our love. The sky was sharp and blue; the snow diamonds sparkled insistently; the stark trees were bare and shameless, with a kind of brazen beauty; the hills shot assaulting lances of crystal. Even the shadows were sharp and stiff and clear-cut, as no proper shadows should be. Everything that was handsome seemed ten times handsomer and less attractive in the glaring splendor; and everything that was ugly seemed ten times uglier, and everything was either handsome or ugly. There was no soft blending, or kind obscurity, or elusive mistiness in that searching glitter.

"Our library isn't very extensive," said Anne, "but every book in it is a friend. We've picked our books up through the years, here and there, never buying one until we had first read it and knew that it belonged to the race of Joseph."

The night winds were beginning their wild dances beyond the bar and the fishing hamlet across the harbor was gemmed with lights as Anne and Gilbert drove up the poplar lane. The door of the little house opened, and a warm glow of firelight flickered out into the dusk. Gilbert lifted Anne from the buggy and led her into the garden, through the little gate between the ruddy-tipped firs, up the trim, red path to the sandstone step.
"Welcome home," he whispered, and hand in hand they stepped over the threshold of their house of dreams.

"But pearls are for tears, the old legend says," Gilbert had objected.
"I'm not afraid of that. And tears can be happy as well as sad. My very happiest moments have been when I had tears in my eyes – when Marilla told me I might stay at Green Gables – when Matthew gave me the first pretty dress I ever had – when I heard that you were going to recover from the fever. So give me pearls for our troth ring, Gilbert, and I'll willingly accept the sorrow of life with its joy."

"No." Something in Anne's tone made Marilla glance at her sharply, but Anne was apparently absorbed in arranging her violets in a bowl. "See, aren't they sweet?" she went hurriedly. "The year is a book, isn't it, Marilla? Spring's pages are written in Mayflowers and violets, summer's in roses, autumn's in red maple leaves, and winter in holly and evergreen."