Little Men

They say behind every hardened cynic is a disappointed idealist.

And I've come to believe that it is true.

Before my long-ago disillusionment with love, I believe that my annual subscription with Romantics Anonymous was quite alive and well - as was my subtly rose-tinted glasses. Don't know when it happened but it probably began with the discovery of that treasure trove in my mother's old library. No diamonds nor pearls but novels and essays well beyond price, tattered and worn with years of inattention.

Though the pages were creased with age - and riddled with silverfish, they seemed like newly minted friends. And so they have remained to this day cloistered in my own library now.

Started with the regular books boys are handed at a certain age - almost a rite of passage actually. Spent hours with David Balfour on the seas in Kidnapped, ran through the streets of revolutionary Paris with Sydney Carton in the Tale of Two Cities - and of course seeking cold revenge diabolically plotted with the Count of Monte Cristo.


Did someone call?
But the books that have remained with me till now isn't regularly read by boys of all ages. Little Women. Even Little Men. What Katy Did. And of course our Anne of Green Gables.

Though suspense and intrigue, spies and kidnappers might interest me, I've always preferred books with family and friends, home and hearth at heart. Deep down, I've always been a homebody after all. So the tales of the March sisters - Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy - have remained close at heart. Can almost recite by heart every line from the first chapter right from their complaint about Christmas not being Christmas without presents.

Of course I've always thought that Jo should have ended up with Laurie - though a contrary M. Alcott determinedly switched her suitors halfway ( despite the expectations of her loyal readers ) to have her ending up with a hitherto unknown german professor.

But some characters are always meant to be together - finding personalities and words of their own - they rebel openly against the wishes of the author sometimes. Have to say fortunately not every author purposely prevents a happy ending for her star-crossed lovers. After all our red-headed orphan Anne Shirley managed to find her perfect match in childhood rival Gilbert Blythe forsaking sunbursts and marble halls for a love to last with the boy she once smashed her slate over.


Romantic ideals. In her childish fantasies, Anne once wished for a dark, dashing, thoroughly wicked suitor not realizing that her heart actually lay with the patient sweet man who sacrificed so much for her - and waited long enough for her to finally come to her senses. Reason enough that I just spent a day or two reading through my old copy of Green Gables.

And yes, don't tell anyone but I am a closet romantic still.