“It was a simple little story about a child — dear, wholesome, understanding. And then right in the middle of it came the most hideous loathsome bestial incident — the vilest thing I ever read in any book. Not more than half a page long as far as words go but reaching down to the primeval slime of crawling things. I flung the book from me. It turned me sick. There was no need for it — it didn’t belong to the book. I am no prude. I have read a great many books where sex played a prominent part — great books, which I enjoyed. This was worse than dirt — it was verminous. I poked it into the fire and held it down with the tongs and watched it burn with delight. Why did the author put such a thing into what else would have been a charming book? Was she afraid of the laughter of her world if she wrote a wholly decent book? Then why didn’t she pour pornography over every chapter and omit that damnable half-page?”
— L.M. Montgomery
