One day, a few years ago, my mother casually remarked to me that she had always hated Pollyanna because of her continual, insufferable optimism.
I have not been able to read it since.
Actually, I probably could re-read it now and be absolutely fine. But for now I am content to just remember how much I loved it. (And I got a valuable lesson out of the whole thing: the things you say DO affect those who look up to you. A lot.)