A moment for this authoress:
All my literature-infused life (i.e. "As long as I have been reading..."), I have been looking out for that one author, that single writer I could adore and follow with loyalty and love. Books and styles would be loved by me, and I would seem well on my way to falling into perfect harmony with a certain dead man or woman; it was always at the last moment when I would discover some awful little fact about his or her life, and my admiration would cease - aren't I a snob? As a little girl, L. M. Montgomery was fascinating to me. In fact, I would lie in bed for hours, waiting for the house to fall asleep before I took out my flashlight to finish Anne's House of Dreams while eating leftover Easter chocolate. I might have done this with Nancy Drew when I was eleven, but twas only Montgomery that could bring me back out of bed as I got older. When I was twelve, I bought her treasury, devotedly making every recipe and vowing to sew the potpourri cushion whenever I found out what potpourri was. All of Anne was devoured and quickly followed by Kilmeny, Pat and Valancy. I know every bit of history available on Montgomery's life: why on earth had it never occurred to me to claim her as my favorite? When I read her stories - the few I can really read over and over - I am filled with springy light thrills; when I am not reading her stories, I have secret hankerings to be a blind violin player or a recently-jilted tawny beauty with limpid eyes. Yes, my L.M. is far superior to the Austens, James' and Trollopes, and, hurray, she is the One.
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