love. i fell deeply and everlastingly in love at 13. eversince i laid my hands on my very own abridged version of perhaps my greatest love story. i grew to love more than Mrs Bennet's nerves, Jane's sweet disposition, Elizabeth's independence and Darcy's righteousness. i grew to love the woman who penned the words. she who dreamed a world and made it reality for those of us so deeply immersed that we couldn't bear to part with the virtues, ideals and wonders of her world that seem so lacking in our own existence.
but who was she who carved dreams for countless others with a stroke of her quill? who lent her characters strength and determination, will and countenance, grace and humility?
"If you can think me capable of ever feeling -- surely you may suppose that I have suffered now . The composure of mind with which I have brought myself at present to consider the matter, the consolation that I have been willing to admit, have been the effect of constant and painful exertion; -- they did not spring up of themselves; they did not occur to relieve my spirits at first, -- no, Marianne. Then , if I had not been bound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely -- not even what I owed to my dearest friends -- from openly shewing that I was very unhappy." Eleanor, Sense & Sensibility
i fell in love at 13. not just with a book. but an ideology. perhaps romantic. perhaps even old-fashioned. but how i wish i was her muse. now. i feel the same.
i wish like eleanor. like jane. like elizabeth even. to be with sense & sensibility, without pride & prejudice. among others...
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