Emily Climbs (Emily Series #2)

Emily Climbs (Emily Series #2)

by L. M. Montgomery

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Emily Starr was born with the desire to write. As  an orphan living on New Moon Farm, writing helped  her face the difficult, lonely times. But now all  her friends are going away to high school in  nearby Shrewsbury, and her old-fashioned, tyrannical  aunt Elizabeth will only let her go if she promises  to stop writng! All the same, this is the first  step in Emily's climb to success. Once in town,  Emily's activities set the Shrewsbury gossips  buzzing. But Emily and her friends are confident —  Ilse's a born actress, Teddy's set to be a great  artist, and roguish Perry has the makings of a brilliant  lawyer. When Emily has her poems published and  writes for the town newspaper, success seems to be on  its way — and with it the first whispers of  romance. Then Emily is offered a fabulous opportunity,  and she must decide if she wants to change her  life forever.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780553262148
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Publication date: 05/01/1983
Series: Emily Series , #2
Edition description: Reissue
Pages: 336
Sales rank: 224,544
Product dimensions: 6.82(w) x 10.90(h) x 0.90(d)
Lexile: 930L (what's this?)
Age Range: 8 - 12 Years

About the Author

L.M. Montgomery achieved international fame in her lifetime that endures well over a century later. A prolific writer, she published some 500 short stories and poems and twenty novels. Most recognized for Anne of Green Gables, her work has been hailed by Mark Twain, Margaret Atwood, Madeleine L'Engle and Princess Kate, to name a few. Today, Montgomery's novels, journals, letters, short stories, and poems are read and studied by general readers and scholars from around the world. Her writing appeals to people who love beauty and to those who struggle against oppression.

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

Writing Herself Out

Emily Byrd Starr was alone in her room, in the old New Moon farmhouse at Blair Water, one stormy night in a February of the olden years before the world turned upside down. She was at that moment as perfectly happy as any human being is ever permitted to be. Aunt Elizabeth, in consideration of the coldness of the night, had allowed her to have a fire in her little fireplace-a rare favor. It was burning brightly and showering a red-golden light over the small, immaculate room, with its old-time furniture and deep-set, wide-silled windows, to whose frosted, blue-white panes the snowflakes clung in little wreaths. It lent depth and mystery and allure to the mirror on the wall which reflected Emily as she sat coiled on the ottoman before the fire, writing, by the light of two tall, white candles-which were the only approved means of illumination at New Moon-in a brand-new, glossy, black "Jimmy-book" which Cousin Jimmy had given her that day. Emily had been very glad to get it, for she had filled the one he had given her the preceding autumn, and for over a week she had suffered acute pangs of suppression because she could not write in a non-existent "diary."

Her diary had become a dominant factor in her young, vivid life. It had taken the place of certain "letters" she had written in her childhood to her dead father, in which she had been wont to "write out" her problems and worries-for even in the magic years when one is almost fourteen one has problems and worries, especially when one is under the strict and well-meant but not over-tender governance of an Aunt Elizabeth Murray. Sometimes Emily felt that if it were not for her diary she would have flown into little bits by reason of consuming her own smoke. The fat, black "Jimmy-book" seemed to her like a personal friend and a safe confidant for certain matters which burned for expression and yet were too combustible to be trusted to the ears of any living being. Now blank books of any sort were not easy to come by at New Moon, and if it had not been for Cousin Jimmy, Emily might never have had one. Certainly Aunt Elizabeth would not give her one-Aunt Elizabeth thought Emily wasted far too much time "over her scribbling nonsense" as it was-and Aunt Laura did not dare to go contrary to Aunt Elizabeth in this-more by token that Laura herself really thought Emily might be better employed. Aunt Laura was a jewel of a woman, but certain things were holden from her eyes.

Now Cousin Jimmy was never in the least frightened of Aunt Elizabeth, and when the notion occurred to him that Emily probably wanted another "blank book," that blank book materialized straightway, in defiance of Aunt Elizabeth's scornful glances. He had gone to Shrewsbury that very day, in the teeth of the rising storm, for no other reason than to get it. So Emily was happy, in her subtle and friendly firelight, while the wind howled and shrieked through the great old trees to the north of New Moon, sent huge, spectral wreaths of snow whirling across Cousin Jimmy's famous garden, drifted the sundial completely over, and whistled eerily through the Three Princesses-as Emily always called the three tall Lombardies in the corner of the garden.


From the Diary of Emily Byrd Starr

I love a storm like this at night when I don't have to go out in it,

(wrote Emily).

Cousin Jimmy and I had a splendid evening planning out our garden and choosing our seeds and plants in the catalog. Just where the biggest drift is making, behind the summer-house, we are going to have a bed of pink asters, and we are going to give the Golden Ones-who are dreaming under four feet of snow-a background of flowering almond. I love to plan out summer days like this, in the midst of a storm. It makes me feel as if I were winning a victory over something ever so much bigger than myself, just because I have a brain and the storm is nothing but blind, white force-terrible, but blind. I have the same feeling when I sit here cozily by my own dear fire, and hear it raging all around me, and laugh at it. And that is just because over a hundred years ago great-great-grandfather Murray built this house and built it well. I wonder if, a hundred years from now, anybody will win a victory over anything because of something I left or did. It is an inspiring thought.

I drew that line of italics before I thought. Mr. Carpenter says I use far too many italics. He says it is an Early Victorian obsession, and I must strive to cast it off. I concluded I would when I looked in the dictionary, for it is evidently not a nice thing to be obsessed, though it doesn't seem quite so bad as to be possessed. There I go again: but I think the italics are all right this time.

I read the dictionary for a whole hour-till Aunt Elizabeth got suspicious and suggested that it would be much better for me to be knitting my ribbed stockings. She couldn't see exactly why it was wrong for me to be poring over the dictionary but she felt sure it must be because she never wants to do it. I love reading the dictionary. (Yes, those italics are necessary, Mr. Carpenter. An ordinary "love" wouldn't express my feeling at all!) Words are such fascinating things. (I caught myself at the first syllable that time!) The very sound of some of them-"haunted"-"mystic"-for example, gives me the flash. (Oh, dear! But I have to italicize the flash. It isn't ordinary-it's the most extraordinary and wonderful thing in my whole life. When it comes I feel as if a door had swung open in a wall before me and given me a glimpse of-yes, of heaven. More italics! Oh, I see why Mr. Carpenter scolds! I must break myself of the habit.)

Big words are never beautiful-"incriminating"-"obstreperous"-"international"-"unconstitutional." They make me think of those horrible big dahlias and chrysanthemums Cousin Jimmy took me to see at the exhibition in Charlottetown last fall. We couldn't see anything lovely in them, though some people thought them wonderful. Cousin Jimmy's little yellow 'mums, like pale, fairy-like stars shining against the fir copse in the northwest corner of the garden, were ten times more beautiful. But I am wandering from my subject-also a bad habit of mine, according to Mr. Carpenter. He says I must (the italics are his this time!) learn to concentrate-another big word and a very ugly one.

But I had a good time over that dictionary-much better than I had over the ribbed stockings. I wish I could have a pair-just one pair-of silk stockings. Ilse has three. Her father gives her everything she wants, now that he has learned to love her. But Aunt Elizabeth says silk stockings are immoral. I wonder why-any more than silk dresses.

Speaking of silk dresses, Aunt Janey Milburn, at Derry Pond-she isn't any relation really, but everybody calls her that-has made a vow that she will never wear a silk dress until the whole heathen world is converted to Christianity. That is very fine. I wish I could be as good as that, but I couldn't-I love silk too much. It is so rich and sheeny. I would like to dress in it all the time, and if I could afford to I would-though I suppose every time I thought of dear old Aunt Janey and the unconverted heathen I would feel conscience-stricken. However, it will be years, if ever, before I can afford to buy even one silk dress, and meanwhile I give some of my egg money every month to missions. (I have five hens of my own now, all descended from the gray pullet Perry gave me on my twelfth birthday.) If ever I can buy that one silk dress I know what it is going to be like. Not black or brown or navy blue-sensible, serviceable colors, such as New Moon Murrays always wear-oh, dear, no! It is to be of shot silk, blue in one light, silver in others, like a twilight sky, glimpsed through a frosted window pane-with a bit of lace-foam here and there, like those little feathers of snow clinging to my windowpane. Teddy says he will paint me in it and call it "The Ice Maiden," and Aunt Laura smiles and says, sweetly and condescendingly, in a way I hate, even in dear Aunt Laura,

"What use would such a dress be to you, Emily?"

It mightn't be of any use, but I would feel in it as if it were a part of me-that it grew on me and wasn't just bought and put on. I want one dress like that in my lifetime. And a silk petticoat underneath it-and silk stockings!

Ilse has a silk dress now-a bright pink one. Aunt Elizabeth says Dr. Burnley dresses Ilse far too old and rich for a child. But he wants to make up for all the years he didn't dress her at all. (I don't mean she went naked, but she might have as far as Dr. Burnley was concerned. Other people had to see to her clothes.) He does everything she wants him to do now, and gives her her own way in everything. Aunt Elizabeth says it is very bad for her, but there are times when I envy Ilse a little. I know it is wicked, but I cannot help it.

Dr. Burnley is going to send Ilse to Shrewsbury High School next fall, and after that to Montreal to study elocution. That is why I envy her-not because of the silk dress. I wish Aunt Elizabeth would let me go to Shrewsbury, but I fear she never will. She feels she can't trust me out of her sight because my mother eloped. But she need not be afraid I will ever elope. I have made up my mind that I will never marry. I shall be wedded to my art.

Teddy wants to go to Shrewsbury next fall, but his mother won't let him go, either. Not that she is afraid of his eloping, but because she loves him so much she can't part with him. Teddy wants to be an artist, and Mr. Carpenter says he has genius and should have his chance, but everybody is afraid to say anything to Mrs. Kent. She is a little bit of a woman-no taller than I am, really, quiet and shy-and yet everyone is afraid of her. I am-dreadfully afraid. I've always known she didn't like me-ever since those days long ago when Ilse and I first went up to the Tansy Patch, to play with Teddy. But now she hates me-I feel sure of it-just because Teddy likes me. She can't bear to have him like anybody or anything but her. She is even jealous of his pictures. So there is not much chance of his getting to Shrewsbury. Perry is going. He hasn't a cent, but he is going to work his way through. That is why he thinks he will go to Shrewsbury in place of Queen's Academy. He thinks it will be easier to get work to do in Shrewsbury, and board is cheaper there.

"My old beast of an Aunt Tom has a little money," he told me, "but she won't give me any of it-unless-unless-"

Then he looked at me significantly.

I blushed because I couldn't help it, and then I was furious with myself for blushing, and with Perry-because he referred to something I didn't want to hear about-that time ever so long ago when his Aunt Tom met me in Lofty John's bush and nearly frightened me to death by demanding that I promise to marry Perry when we grew up, in which case she would educate him. I never told anybody about it-being ashamed-except Ilse, and she said,

"The idea of old Aunt Tom aspiring to a Murray for Perry!"

But then, Ilse is awfully hard on Perry and quarrels with him half the time, over things I only smile at. Perry never likes to be outdone by anyone in anything. When we were at Amy Moore's party last week, her uncle told us a story of some remarkable freak calf he had seen, with three legs, and Perry said,

"Oh, that's nothing to a duck I saw once in Norway."

(Perry really was in Norway. He used to sail everywhere with his father when he was little. But I don't believe one word about that duck. He wasn't lying-he was just romancing. Dear Mr. Carpenter, I can't get along without italics.)

Perry's duck had four legs, according to him-two where a proper duck's legs should be, and two sprouting from its back. And when it got tired of walking on its ordinary pair it flopped over on its back and walked on the other pair!

Perry told this yarn with a sober face, and everybody laughed, and Amy's uncle said, "Go up head, Perry." But Ilse was furious and wouldn't speak to him all the way home. She said he had made a fool of himself, trying to "show off" with a silly story like that, and that no gentleman would act so.

Perry said: "I'm no gentleman, yet, only a hired boy, but some day, Miss Ilse, I'll be a finer gentleman than any one you know."

"Gentlemen," said Ilse in a nasty voice, "have to be born. They can't be made, you know."

Ilse has almost given up calling names, as she used to do when she quarreled with Perry or me, and taken to saying cruel, cutting things. They hurt far worse than the names used to, but I don't really mind them-much-or long-because I know Ilse doesn't mean them and really loves me as much as I love her. But Perry says they stick in his crop. They didn't speak to each other the rest of the way home, but next day Ilse was at him again about using bad grammar and not standing up when a lady enters the room.

"Of course you couldn't be expected to know that," she said in her nastiest voice, "but I am sure Mr. Carpenter has done his best to teach you grammar."

Perry didn't say one word to Ilse, but he turned to me.

"Will you tell me my faults?" he said. "I don't mind you doing it-it will be you that will have to put up with me when we're grown up, not Ilse."

He said that to make Ilse angry, but it made me angrier still, for it was an allusion to a forbidden topic. So we neither of us spoke to him for two days and he said it was a good rest from Ilse's slams anyway.

Perry is not the only one who gets into disgrace at New Moon. I said something silly yesterday evening which makes me blush to recall it. The Ladies' Aid met here and Aunt Elizabeth gave them a supper and the husbands of the Aid came to it. Ilse and I waited on the table, which was set in the kitchen because the dining-room table wasn't long enough. It was exciting at first and then, when everyone was served, it was a little dull and I began to compose some poetry in my mind as I stood by the window looking out on the garden. It was so interesting that I soon forgot everything else until suddenly I heard Aunt Elizabeth say, "Emily," very sharply, and then she looked significantly at Mr. Johnson, our new minister. I was confused and I snatched up the teapot and exclaimed,

"Oh, Mr. Cup, will you have your Johnson filled?"

Everybody roared and Aunt Elizabeth looked disgusted and Aunt Laura ashamed, and I felt as if I would sink through the floor. I couldn't sleep half the night for thinking over it. The strange thing was that I do believe I felt worse and more ashamed than I would have felt if I had done something really wrong. This is the "Murray pride" of course, and I suppose it is very wicked. Sometimes I am afraid Aunt Ruth Dutton is right in her opinion of me after all.

No, she isn't!

But it is a tradition of New Moon that its women should be equal to any situation and always be graceful and dignified. Now, there was nothing graceful or dignified in asking such a question of the new minister. I am sure he will never see me again without thinking of it and I will always writhe when I catch his eye upon me.

But now that I have written it out in my diary I don't feel so badly over it. Nothing ever seems as big or as terrible-oh, nor as beautiful and grand, either, alas!-when it is written out, as it does when you are thinking or feeling about it. It seems to shrink directly you put it into words. Even the line of poetry I had made just before I asked that absurd question won't seem half as fine when I write it down:

"Where the velvet feet of darkness softly go."

It doesn't. Some bloom seems gone from it. And yet, while I was standing there, behind all those chattering, eating people, and saw darkness stealing so softly over the garden and the hills, like a beautiful woman robed in shadows, with stars for eyes, the flash came and I forgot everything but that I wanted to put something of the beauty I felt into the words of my poem. When that line came into my mind it didn't seem to me that I composed it at all-it seemed as if Something Else were trying to speak through me-and it was that Something Else that made the line seem wonderful-and now when it is gone the words seem flat and foolish and the picture I tried to draw in them not so wonderful after all.

Oh, if I could only put things into words as I see them! Mr. Carpenter says, "Strive-strive-keep on-words are your medium-make them your slaves-until they will say for you what you want them to say." That is true-and I do try-but it seems to me there is something beyond words-any words-all words-something that always escapes you when you try to grasp it-and yet leaves something in your hand which you wouldn't have had if you hadn't reached for it.

I remember one day last fall when Dean and I walked over the Delectable Mountain to the woods beyond it-fir woods mostly, but with one corner of splendid old pines. We sat under them and Dean read Peveril of the Peak and some of Scott's poems to me; and then he looked up into the big, plumy boughs and said,

"The gods are talking in the pines-gods of the old northland-of the viking sagas. Star, do you know Emerson's lines?"

And then he quoted them-I've remembered and loved them ever since.

"The gods talk in the breath of the wold,

They talk in the shaken pine,

And they fill the reach of the old seashore

With dialogue divine;

And the poet who overhears

One random word they say

Is the fated man of men

Whom the ages must obey."

Oh, that "random word"-that is the Something that escapes me. I'm always listening for it-I know I can never hear it-my ear isn't attuned to it-but I am sure I hear at times a little, faint, far-off echo of it-and it makes me feel a delight that is like pain and a despair of ever being able to translate its beauty into any words I know.

Still, it is a pity I made such a goose of myself immediately after that wonderful experience.

If I had just floated up behind Mr. Johnson, as velvet-footedly as darkness herself, and poured his tea gracefully from Great-grandmother Murray's silver teapot, like my shadow-woman pouring night into the white cup of Blair Valley, Aunt Elizabeth would be far better pleased with me than if I could write the most wonderful poem in the world.

Cousin Jimmy is so different. I recited my poem to him this evening after we had finished with the catalog and he thought it was beautiful. (He couldn't know how far it fell short of what I had seen in my mind.) Cousin Jimmy composes poetry himself. He is very clever in spots. And in other spots, where his brain was hurt when Aunt Elizabeth pushed him into our New Moon well, he isn't anything. There's just blankness there. So people call him simple, and Aunt Ruth dares to say he hasn't sense enough to shoo a cat from cream. And yet if you put all his clever spots together there isn't anybody in Blair Water has half as much real cleverness as he has-not even Mr. Carpenter. The trouble is you can't put his clever spots together-there are always those gaps between. But I love Cousin Jimmy and I'm never in the least afraid of him when his queer spells come on him. Everybody else is-even Aunt Elizabeth, though perhaps it is remorse with her, instead of fear-except Perry. Perry always brags that he is never afraid of anything-doesn't know what fear is. I think that is very wonderful. I wish I could be so fearless. Mr. Carpenter says fear is a vile thing, and is at the bottom of almost every wrong and hatred of the world.

"Cast it out, Jade," he says-"cast it out of your heart. Fear is a confession of weakness. What you fear is stronger than you, or you think it is, else you wouldn't be afraid of it. Remember your Emerson-‘always do what you are afraid to do.'"

But that is a counsel of perfection, as Dean says, and I don't believe I'll ever be able to attain to it. To be honest, I am afraid of a good many things, but there are only two people in the word I'm truly afraid of. One is Mrs. Kent, and the other is Mad Mr. Morrison. I'm terribly afraid of him and I think almost everyone is. His home is in Derry Pond, but he hardly ever stays there-he roams over the country looking for his lost bride. He was married only a few weeks when his young wife died, many years ago, and he has never been right in his mind since. He insists she is not dead, only lost, and that he will find her some time. He has grown old and bent, looking for her, but to him she is still young and fair.

He was here one day last summer, but would not come in-just peered into the kitchen wistfully and said, "Is Annie here?" He was quite gentle that day, but sometimes he is very wild and violent. He declares he always hears Annie calling to him-that her voice flits on before him-always before him, like my random word. His face is wrinkled and shriveled and he looks like an old, old monkey. But the thing I hate most about him is his right hand-it is a deep blood-red all over-birth-marked. I can't tell why, but that hand fills me with horror. I could not bear to touch it. And sometimes he laughs to himself very horribly. The only living thing he seems to care for is his old black dog that always is with him. They say he will never ask for a bite of food for himself. If people do not offer it to him he goes hungry, but he will beg for his dog.

Oh, I am terribly afraid of him, and I was so glad he didn't come into the house that day Aunt Elizabeth looked after him, as he went away with his long, gray hair streaming in the wind, and said,

"Fairfax Morrison was once a fine, clever, young man, with excellent prospects. Well, God's ways are very mysterious."

"That is why they are interesting," I said.

But Aunt Elizabeth frowned and told me not to be irreverent, as she always does when I say anything about God. I wonder why. She won't let Perry and me talk about Him, either, though Perry is really very much interested in Him and wants to find out all about Him. Aunt Elizabeth overheard me telling Perry one Sunday afternoon what I thought God was like, and she said it was scandalous.

It wasn't! The trouble is, Aunt Elizabeth and I have different Gods, that is all. Everybody has a different God, I think. Aunt Ruth's, for instance, is one that punishes her enemies-sends "judgments" on them. That seems to me to be about all the use He really is to her. Jim Cosgrain uses his to swear by. But Aunt Janey Milburn walks in the light of her God's countenance, every day, and shines with it.

I have written myself out for tonight, and am going to bed. I know I have "wasted words" in this diary-another of my literary faults, according to Mr. Carpenter.

"You waste words, Jade-you spill them about too lavishly. Economy and restraint-that's what you need."

He's right, of course, and in my essays and stories I try to practice what he preaches. But in my diary, which nobody sees but myself, or ever will see until after I'm dead, I like just to let myself go.


Emily looked at her candle-it, too, was almost burned out. She knew she could not have another that night-Aunt Elizabeth's rules were as those of Mede and Persian: she put away her diary in the little right-hand cupboard above the mantel, covered her dying fire, undressed and blew out her candle. The room slowly filled with the faint, ghostly snow-light of a night when a full moon is behind the driving storm-clouds. And just as Emily was ready to slip into her high black bedstead a sudden inspiration came-a splendid new idea for a story. For a minute she shivered reluctantly: the room was getting cold. But the idea would not be denied. Emily slipped her hand between the feather tick of her bed and the chaff mattress and produced a half-burned candle, secreted there for just such an emergency.

It was not, of course, a proper thing to do. But then I have never pretended, nor ever will pretend, that Emily was a proper child. Books are not written about proper children. They would be so dull nobody would read them.

She lighted her candle, put on her stockings and a heavy coat, got out another half-filled Jimmy-book, and began to write by the single, uncertain candle which made a pale oasis of light in the shadows of the room. In that oasis Emily wrote, her black head bent over her book, as the hours of night crept away and the other occupants of New Moon slumbered soundly; she grew chill and cramped, but she was quite unconscious of it. Her eyes burned-her cheeks glowed-words came like troops of obedient genii to the call of her pen. When at last her candle went out with a sputter and a hiss in its little pool of melted tallow, she came back to reality with a sigh and a shiver. It was two, by the clock, and she was very tired and very cold; but she had finished her story and it was the best she had ever written. She crept into her cold nest with a sense of completion and victory, born of the working out of her creative impulse, and fell asleep to the lullaby of the waning storm.

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Emily Climbs (Emily Series #2) 4.7 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 24 reviews.
InTheBookcase More than 1 year ago
This was a WONDERFUL sequel to the first Emily book. I honestly can't decide which book was better than the other. Parts of the book are in diary form, while others are set in regular story form, so you get an all-around view of Emily's life. I like how the author weaved the two forms together. I loved the storyline; it seems like very simple, little things that take place, but as you reflect on it, you realize the story is actually quite deep in thought, and well plotted. Emily is allowed to attend the Shrewbury school where her friends are going. However, the rule is that she must live with grumpy, old Aunt Ruth, who seemingly has stricter rules than Aunt Elizabeth did when Emily lived with her. And Aunt Ruth is always accusing Emily of being sly, which runs down Emily's patience. During the time that Emily lives with her Aunt Ruth, she is not allowed to write fiction, which seems to put a damper on Emily's future career of writing. Her old teacher, who has helped guide her [Mr. Carpenter] says the time away from fiction will improve Emily's writing ability. Yet still, her wild, imaginative mind can hardly fathom being separated from her beloved hobby. I am really anticipating the third and final Emily book now, to see how her story ends!
Guest More than 1 year ago
I enjoyed the whole Emily triligy. I relate to Emily, because I have a passion for writing. It's encouraging and inspiring to see this girl reach for her dreams.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Emily Climbs is a great continuation from the first book in the series. There is good character development with her circle of friends and also her family. You'll love it!
puckrobin on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
While not as endearing as its predessesor, Emily Climbs is nonetheless a delightful installment in the Emily series. In this novel, Emily embarks on the begining of her pursuit of her education and of writing. Her friendships develop and deepen, with one or two taking on entirely new under and overtones. A bit darker by nature than Montgomery's most famous PEI orphan heroine, Anne Shirley, Emily is a contrast in sardonic humour and girlish ideals in a book that paints a sweet, if idealized, picture of Canada just after the turn of the century.
Stewartry on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I did some reflecting in my (review? Essay? Piece?) thing on Emily of New Moon about why I don't love Emily as much as Anne, why I haven't read the trilogy in many years when I won't let a year go by Anne-less. Emily Climbs clarifies the matter a bit more. There is a great deal more cynicism in Emily's world than in Anne's. I was astonished reading the first chapters at Emily's perceptiveness ¿ and, like any perceptive person moving among the unimaginative and less incisive, she has, very young, developed an almost inevitable shell of jaded sarcasm. Mr. Carpenter doesn't call her "Jade" for nothing. I don't class myself with Emily (or Anne) in terms of intelligence or sensitivity, but still, I am of their ilk. Emily weeps over David Copperfield - oh, how I understand that. Aunt Ruth (not of the race that knows Joseph) upbraids her for the tears ¿ crying over people who don't exist! And, with Emily, I protest that of course they exist. In a meta moment, Emily tells her they are as real as Aunt Ruth is ¿ and so they are, of course. But Ruth is part of the force that demonstrates daily for Emily how flat most people's lives are ¿ none of the terrible deep dark moments for them, but also none of the marvellous highs ¿ nor even the small secret pleasures a combination of being able to see and being able to appreciate can bring. Aunt Elizabeth is Marilla without the sense of humor, and with a solid layer of scarring ¿ from the accident with Jimmy to, probably, the fact that she is single in a time and place where spinsterhood is a wretched condition ¿ to prevent most softer emotions ¿ Aunt Laura has her moments, is loving and more willing and able to share it, but is prim and easily shocked. Uncle Jimmy is wonderful ¿ but not comfortable, always; there is the occasional glimpse of what he might have been, of what was all but killed in him by the fall into the well, and you never quite know when it will make an appearance. Dr. Burnley has gone from bitter and cynical to ¿ rather less bitter and cynical, and somewhat excessive. Aunt Ruth ¿ Were I Emily, I think of the two conditions going to school in Shrewsbury, that I would lodge with Aunt Ruth and that I could not write any fiction for three years, the Aunt Ruth half would be worse. Fiction will still be there when it's over; the scars Aunt Ruth might leave will linger forever. Writing fiction is a passion which would not die in three years; living with Aunt Ruth would be torment. And so it was. The idea of the wild, dark vein that exists here but not in most of the rest of L.M.M.'s work intensified as it went on. Emily has a mean streak ¿ not very big, and not well-developed, but expressed now and then in sarcasm and cutting remarks which send people off bleeding and vowing never to mess with her again. And she has an understanding for darkness; she hears goblins as well as wind spirits, and the thought is inescapable that she could have easily gone either way. Had she been raised by Uncle Wallace ¿ I can see her at the age she is ending the trilogy, with a career as a viciously funny writer, slashing more tender folk to shreds and making millions doing it, but treasuring more the string of scalps at her belt than all the money. I think I was too young to get hold of all of this the last time I read Emily, and so these three books were not as enjoyable as the sweet and lovely place that is Anne's Avonlea. Anne has her moments ¿ but compare her handling of Josie Pye to Emily's dealings with the evil Evelyn Blake. Anne wins by taking the high road, and Josie Pye, Pye-like, would never recognize her victory; Emily routs Evelyn foot and horse and leaves her bleeding in the dust. I loved this tale of the teenaged girl beginning to make a mark for herself. The tangled webs, to reference another LMM work, are beginning to tighten, but they aren't too heavy yet; the future is still completely unwritten, or seemingly so, and hope is
callmecordelia1912 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This is my favorite of the Emily novels. She not a child anymore; but she hasn't the romance problems of when she's older. Emily gets locked int he church with mad Mr. Morrison and Teddy comes to save her. Emily boards with her Aunt Ruth while in high school. I can't imagine having to live with stuffy Aunt Ruth. Then Emily discovers a lost boy, and who could forget The Woman who Spanked the King? This is a must read for all Anne of Green Gables fans.
rainbowdarling on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
As the middle book of a trilogy, my experience tells me that Emily Climbs should suffer some from too much exposition and not enough "action." This is not the case with this book. Emily Climbs is almost a book unto itself, able to stand alone as well as be enjoyed in the context of the other two novels in the series. The story is enjoyable because of how Emily grows and changes through the story as well as how she reacts and interacts with different characters than in Emily of New Moon. I am a fervent and unabashed lover of Emily.
kathryngw on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This enchanting bildungsroman book gives the reader view into a young girls life. Set on the beautiful Prince Edward Island, this story is an account of the writer Emily. Emily meets many trails and faces them all dauntlessly with charm, wit and a good dose of Murray pride. All should at least read it, and all kindred writer spirits will love it forever more.
Wanderlust_Lost on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
The second installment of the Emily series doesn't disappoint in the least. It's tone is different from the first in just the right ways and Emily is, as always, Emily. I love this book. I can't read it enough. I've read it so often that my copy has split down the middle.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
It sounds good and I love the first but I want to make sure its not a rip off
Booklover1776 More than 1 year ago
I have always loved L.M. Montgomery's books. The Emily books are not my favorite that she has written (it is actually The Blue Castle and the Anne books), but they are still very good. It focuses on a heroine that is somewhat similar to Anne, but with a different twist. There are a total of three books in the Emily series. And I love the new look for the paperback! The artwork is beautiful. The only problem... now I want to update all of my collection of her books to match the new look. :D
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Love the Emily series! Great continuation of her adventures!
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Guest More than 1 year ago
Excelent Book! Loved it. I like this series a little better than the Anne of Green series. Well Written!
Guest More than 1 year ago
I liked this book, but it was not one of her best. I was a bit bored and her Aunt Ruth is so frustrating.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The Emily books are some of my favorites. L. M. Montgomery has the ability to completely draw you into the story. Yuo will find yourself locked in the old church, gazing at the three princesses and walking in the land of uprightness as if you were Emily herself. The Emily books will earn a place in your heart and at the top of your bookshelf.
Guest More than 1 year ago
what a great book!!! I loved reading it. I liked this one out of all the books that L.M. Montgomery has written and You should read it too!!!!!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Go ahead. Kill urself. Ur an annoying brat. All u want is attention amd etho. Etho seems irritated to u if u ask me. Ur a sl<_>ut. And thats true. So have a nice day. Or death