Louisa May Alcott

Louisa May Alcott
Louisa May Alcottwas an American novelist and poet best known as the author of the novel Little Womenand its sequels Little Menand Jo's Boys. Raised by her transcendentalist parents, Abigail May and Amos Bronson Alcott in New England, she grew up among many of the well-known intellectuals of the day such as Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Henry David Thoreau...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth29 November 1832
CityPhiladelphia, PA
CountryUnited States of America
November is the most disagreeable month in the whole year," said Margaret, standing at the window one dull afternoon, looking out at the frostbitten garden. "That's the reason I was born in it," observed Jo pensively, quite unconscious of the blot on her nose.
But please hug and kiss me, everyone, and don't mind my dress, I want a great many crumples of this sort put into it today.
{Mrs. March to Jo} You are too much alike and too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong wills, to get on happily together, in a relation which needs infinite patience and forbearance, as well as love.
Go out more, keep cheerful as well as busy, for you are the sunshine-maker of the family, and if you get dismal there is no fair weather.
Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely broken and the world a howling wilderness.
She preferred imaginary heroes to real ones, because when tired of them, the former could be shut up in the tin kitchen till called for, and the latter were less manageable.
The scar will remain, but it is better for a man to lose both arms than his soul; and these hard years, instead of being lost, may be made the most precious of your lives, if they teach you to rule yourselves.
Right Jo better be happy old maids than unhappy wives or unmaidenly girls running about to find husbands.
I do like men who come out frankly and own that they are not gods.
Men are always ready to die for us, but not to make our lives worth having. Cheap sentiment and bad logic.
…in silence learned the sweet solace which affection administers to sorrow.
…men never forgive like women.
…the violin — that most human of all instruments…
But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, isn't worthy of the name.