Becoming Elizabeth

{To begin with, a few comments which are, petty, and, in a sense.... inappropriate. That is: that the summary blurb informs me that Miss Austen is a "late 17th century" author. I was unaware; I shall need to inform Queen Victoria, the next time that we sit down to tea. Also, I was equally unaware that Derbyshire is somewhere within Hiberno-Scotland, as you might think, from.... I don't know. Something.... *sighs* Remember, the dreaded Saxons dwell in the valley-- they do not climb under and over mountains in the way that your coal-miners do.... And I know how foolish it is, in a sense, to bring up John at a time like this, but, since I know how much I've done to grieve John, (and Jason), just as much as *Jane*, I don't know.... sometimes, I just want to wander, "down into the valley, In June-- ha ha!" But, pray do not "chip the glasses and crack the plates"-- such would be the very *height* of impropriety.}

....

"Afar, afar from mine own self I seem,
And wing strange ways in thought,
And listen for a sign...."

Sorry.

Well, I really like Jane Austen, but I don't *really* like this.

Partly because I wonder if Anne really gives a tuppence for Jane, or if she's really like Keira, and only takes this sort of work on account of all of the *miseries* of the past.

And basically because I can barely even *tolerate* Elizabeth.

{And I know how absurd this might all seem-- it's just that Lizzie couldn't have written Jane's novels, any more than *I* could have.... I mean, Thackeray is better than bloody *Dickens*, at least....}

But, what can I say. Sometimes I don't know how to do things right myself. I only hope that....

"Afar, oh how far away, those nights shall be from the days that were."

Until then.

{What I mean is, that I'm sure that Jane knew the story of Proserpina and her mother.... "beyond the reach of reason", remember? And maybe she'd even heard the story of "The Goose Girl"-- "for she suffers a vast deal, though she bears it with all the *patience* in the world, for such is *always* the way with her...." Oh, no, that's not from "The Goose Girl"-- that's from the other one, isn't it? Now, what was *that* one called?

Her tears are pearls.... *for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper that I have ever met with.*}

But something like this, I don't know, it's like any compilation of quotes-- at least it doesn't do any harm.

It's just like a few games of tennis, or a few deals of hearts. (Or if you watch an hour or so of a baseball game, as though it were a television program or something.)

{Thank you, Elizabeth. 'You have delighted us long enough.'}

A little diversion, you know.

And now, the time is gone.

{But, there are always more diversions, even though the 17th century is over, thus putting an end to, ah-- Shakespeare, I suppose? And, what's her face, who knew about "The Rover", well, we'll just have to ask George, or one of George's friends.... But, yes, there are always more diversions. I'm sure that Jane liked old Amadeus, and she'd have liked Chopin too, the man who 'wrote poems with the piano', as I've heard him called, just as Miss Swan does, you know.... And maybe she'd even like Coleridge, although I suppose that Byron is too much like Patrick Stewart.... I mean, to actually *put* a picture of *Napoleon* in a *book*.... And God only knows what she'd want to have to do with Chaucer or Bronte....}

{~ And the way that the film begins, (and continues), is absolutely absurd-- as though Jane's skill were that she could put words together in a clever way.... such that we should give her the Mike Newton award for elegance, no? No, Jane's skill was *not* that she put words together in a clever way.... As though she were Byron, as though she were concerned with words, like Dr Johnson-- or even David Hume! Or-- Wittgenstein! Another fine novelist! No, Jane is there more in what is *not* there, sometimes, than in what is-- ".... if Mr Bingely *had been* imposed upon, then....".... To say that it were about the number of syllables in a line! As though Jane Austen were like Flaubert! As though she weren't even as good as Guy de Maupassant! As though she weren't even as much herself! As though *that* were Jane! Ha! ~}

[Nobody suffers more in the world than a romantic, nobody suffers more than somebody who *really* wants to be happy, I don't think that I'm *explaining* anything to Jane, you know, by saying that....

But anyway, now-- the time is gone. And sometimes there are no words-- sometimes Chopin really is a better poet than Byron....

"To be fond of dancing is...."

But now, the time is gone.

".... but I fear you have no basket for these."]

(8/10)