I was meandering up and down the aisles of the bargain section of Books-a-Million last week, and the cover of this Illustrated Classic caught my eye:
Now, what is the most important thing about Anne of Green Gables? What would be written on her fictional tombstone? ANNE SHIRLEY: Her Hair Was So Red. What, then, is happening here? That hair is yellow. You can't give Anne Shirley yellow hair. Mystified, I began to page through the book, and discovered that yellow hair is the least of poor Anne's worries.
This is clearly an illustration from some alternate Anne of Green Gables, one in which Marilla sends her away to an institution instead of keeping her, and grief renders her into a transcendental halfwit. She either eats flowers or speaks to them. Her chair dissolves beneath her feet; she is no longer of this world.
It is a tragedy indeed when a person possesses such a small intellect that she cannot even choke herself properly, for it is she who needs choking most of all.
Much better. After all, L.M. Montgomery never explicitly states that Anne is not a formidable giant composed entirely of spare parts--a backwards arm here, an animal foot there--who makes men and buildings appear as adorable toys in comparison with her. Anyway, she certainly took that train to the right town. Physical deformities appear to run rampant in the Avonlea community.
Matthew was born partially melted,
Diana got bad squeezed by her mother's vagina,
Mrs. Rachel Lynde is a hideous human-conch-shell hybrid,
Marilla is a T-Rex,
and Minnie May is an actual demon. Thank God that Gilbert is just as handsome as I always imagined him:
Mmm mmm. Little surprise that Anne loses her mind when he criticizes her looks:
When a golden god calls you Carrots, what choice do you have but to "lift" your "slate" "above" your "head" and bash him with it? I hope his brains pour out of his ear--which appears to be one of those White Castle chicken rings. No wonder you eventually fall in love with him, Anne. Don't worry, you'll end up getting married, but not before this rare orchid of femininity does:
Will somebody please slip a diamond on this girl's bulging ring finger already? It is huge with longing. Be patient, though, Anne. Your day will come. Your dress may not be as beautiful as this one:
and Gilbert may not be as happy as he was the day his ten-year-old college friends lifted him by the ankles and inserted celebratory hands into his nearest joyful orifice:
but a halfwit orphan giant with a wolf foot and yellow hair must take what she can get.