Sometimes I feel like I'm the modern day Jane Austen- waiting for the perfect moment and always failing to find it to your perfection. She died alone, you know? All that passion rolled up into one Pre-Victorian girl.
I think she is all misunderstood in the land of literary disciples. A lame excuse at feminism, the first romance novel- they say. I think that is utter bullshit. She is a voice of a person comfortable enough with themselves to set standards and guidelines to presenting yourself in a society of presuppositions and strict societal values- someone who values passion as much as they value life. She always had happy endings- a kind of hope that one day being yourself and finding something worthwhile will happen.