A Love Letter to a Love Letter

Jeff and I unboxed books for a book sale this past week. We were assigned the paperback romance novels which was actually a lot more fun than I thought it would be. Some of the titles were pretty cringe worthy (The Greek Billionaire's Forced Bride). We were discussing good romance novels at knitting last night (think Gone With the Wind and Pride and Prejudice) and discussing if we had ever swooned at a book.

So this morning I'm thinking about swooning moments. Moments that are just so romantic and wonderful that they capture your emotions. And I thought of one. One of the few times where I've actually swooned at a book. It's from Jane Austen's Persuasion. Persuasion was the last book that Austen wrote, and her most sad. It's about unrequited love, something I have some good experience with. And it's my favorite of her novels. At the end of the book there is a love letter that made me weak in the knees when I read it. It's a love letter filled with passion and hope and a bit of pain. It's some of the best romantic writing I've ever read. So I thought I would quote it here. Sorry for the spoiler. If I destroy the book for you, I apologize. Although it is still well worth reading, just for Austen's wonderful phrasings.

"I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F. W.
"I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never."

My Muse is Dead

Every afternoon, I arrive at my writing desk to find a headless Jane Austen waiting for me. You'd think that would shock me but I'm so used to it now that I just reunite Jane with her head and sit down to write. It's becoming something of a ritual. Reattach head, write. Kind of like a muse.

But I think I should explain. I'm a bit of an Austenite. I've read Pride and Prejudice more times than I can count, although I don't have shrine to Darcy the way some women do. I'm not saying he's not an incredible character, I'm just saying that he's FICTIONAL. But back to Austen. I've read all her books, including the ones that no one else seems to have read. Persuasion is one of my favorite books of all times. I own two copies of Sense and Sensibility. I love this woman's work.

So two Christmases ago, my Dad bought me a Jane Austen potbelly figurine (this was the best picture I could find and I'm too lazy to get the camera tonight). Potbellies are little figures that open up to show a small holder for treasures. It's a really tiny place so those treasures better be tiny. But Jane Austen doesn't hold anything. She just sits on my desk and reminds me how great writing, particularly witty writing, can be. Now Jane opens at the neck to reveal her secret treasure space (wow that sounds bad). Basically her head pops off. And every day the cat jumps up onto the window sill knocking poor Jane's head off. At least I hope that's what happens. It's either that or Jane is attempting to kill herself daily and I'm stopping her.

But every afternoon I walk up the stairs after work, settle into my chair, put the head back on Miss Austen, and pretend to write. I wonder what would happen if I didn't have to reattach her head. Would I not be able to write that day? Would I have to knock off the head to get the creative juices flowing? Does this little ritual make me odd? I'm betting the answer is yes. But ritual it has become. So my poor muse is dead. Every single day.