I sometimes think that English teachers and professional writing gurus don’t read much, given how it seems that most of the great enduring classics eschew much of the advice they give. That is, unless they ever remember to say “make it interesting.” Rule one of martial arts is ‘don’t die’, rule one of writing is ‘don’t be dull’.

There’s not much plot in Anne of Green Gables; no great end to which the heroine is striving, no wrong that she must right. What would ordinarily be her great challenges – e.g. getting into the prestigious prep school – are more or less described in passing, with little doubt that she’ll do it (some of her friends even complain that she doesn’t have to worry about failing). The closest thing to an ongoing problem-resolution is her feud with Gilbert, which she could pretty much solve whenever she liked if she just stopped being stubborn about it. It isn’t really about what happens, it’s just a picture of a girl growing up.

In the little Prince Edward Island town of Avonlea, ageing unmarried siblings Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert decide to adopt a boy to help with the farm work, sending a neighbour to pick one out for them via a string of messages. Failure to communicate ensues, and they end up with a skinny red-haired girl with an extra dose of imagination and a non-stop tongue. They initially think to send her back, but Anne’s unique, sensitive personality charms the pair (while her potential adopter repels them) and they end up deciding to keep her after all. The rest of the book is pretty much just a recounting of Anne’s various childhood mishaps and triumphs until she grows into an accomplished adolescent.

The chief thing that makes the whole thing so much fun is Anne’s personality, which turns just about every event into either Heaven on Earth or the End of All Things. Her imagination lets her get the best out of the good times, even (or especially) the commonplace good times, and the worst out of the bad times. If she wasn’t such a nice little girl it would make her annoying, but she’s sweet and loving to just about everyone (with one exception) and genuinely does her best while being legitimately intelligent. She’s a hilariously adorable little drama queen, and wondering what she’ll do next is a big part of what makes the book so engaging.

On that subject, creating a quirkily believable cast of ordinary people seems to be something of a lost art. The inhabitants of Avonlea are vivid and lifelike to varying degrees, depending on how well Anne knows them: the slow, shy kindness of Matthew; the sharp sternness hiding real love of Marilla; the officious, but well-meaning and kindly Mrs. Lynde; the disinterested, ‘spasmodically reforming’ schoolmaster Mr. Phillips (who is besotted with one of his older students and basically ignores everyone else).

Marilla in particular is close on to a deuteragonist with Anne, with a good deal of the story seen through her eyes. She’s a stiff, severe woman brought up in a hard style and with very strict ideas, stern, but fair, and with a soft heart and a sense of humour hidden underneath her tough exterior. Her developing love for her adopted daughter constitutes the emotional core of the book, and some of the most satisfying moments come when she flares up in Anne’s defence.

As I say, there’s one exception to Anne’s general good will, and that’s Gilbert Blythe, an older boy in her same class level who gets on her bad side by teasing her about her red hair, prompting swift and violent retribution and a vow of perpetual enmity on her side. This persists despite his almost immediate apology and attempts to make amends, and even after he rescues her from falling into the lake. It’s pretty clear from the start that he’s got it bad for Anne, and her stubbornness and temper here constitutes one of her big character flaws. Which is fitting for her to have, of course, and as I say her thawing on this issue is one of the few actual plot lines the book has.

Incidentally, there’s an interesting example of how trends change: Anne’s red hair is considered one of the major defects in her looks and a big sore spot for her, to the point that part of her blossoming into a young beauty involves her having to cut it down (she bought some hair dye from a peddler, with unfortunate results) and it growing back a slightly darker shade that her friends can call auburn. Today, a hundred years or so after it was written and longer after it was set, red hair is considered especially attractive for a girl to have (thank you Maureen O’Hara). Poor Anne; winning the genetic lottery a century too soon.

Another major part of the book’s charm is Anne’s imagination and her simple delight in the world around her. As with the best books, it makes you the reader examine yourself and ask whether you might be so aware of things, so open to the world and willing to see the beauty and romance in the life around you.

Then of course there’s the bittersweet experience of Anne growing out of her childhood and into young maidenhood, in the process shedding some of her charming habits of chatting and composing stories on the fly. We get to feel this along with Marilla, and it’s a warmly sad sensation, one that just about every parent in history must experience. What replaces the childish delight is a good thing as well, and indeed a better and higher one, but not the same thing; that is gone forever. Such is the lot of mortal beings in a world of time and change.

The writing style is that delightful old-English approach, where the authoress feels no need to disguise her presence, but freely interjects quaint observances and sidelong comments (“…he said in a solemn tone, as if the mere fact of being a pupil of his ought to root out all evil passions from the hearts of small, imperfect mortals”), skimming where necessary (e.g. many of Anne’s experiences are relayed in the girl’s own words, or even just passed over in a general summary rather than described in full), then filling in with rich, gorgeous descriptions of the setting. Contemporary writers, I note, tend to present their stories in a rather austere, aloof way, as if trying to get the story out without letting on that they’re the one telling it. There’s nothing wrong with that approach, but it’s good to recall that there are others.

In short, it’s quite clear why this one’s a classic. A work of canon status for sure and highly recommended.