Lovely Woman reigns supreme
I found an online edition of Sanditon. I love it--I've never laughed out loud so much reading an Austen novel.
Meet Sir Edward Denham:
"Do you remember," said he, "Scott's beautiful lines on the sea? Oh! what a description they convey! They are never out of my thoughts when I walk here. That man who can read them unmoved must have the nerves of an assassin! Heaven defend me from meeting such a man unarmed."
"What description do you mean?" said Charlotte. "I remember none at this moment, of the sea, in either of Scott s poems.
"Do you not indeed? Nor can I exactly recall the beginning at this moment. But -- you cannot have forgotten his description of woman -- Oh. Woman in our hours of ease -- Delicious! Delicious! Had he written nothing more, he would have been immortal. And then again, that unequalled, unrivalled address to parental affection -- Some feelings are to mortals given With less of earth in them than heaven -- etcetera. But while we are on the subject of poetry, what think you, Miss Heywood, of Burns's lines to his Mary? Oh! there is pathos to madden one! If ever there was a man who felt, it was Burns. Montgomery has all the fire of poetry, Wordsworth has the true soul of it, Campbell in his pleasures of hope has touched the extreme of our sensations -- Like angels' visits, few and far between. Can you conceive anything more subduing, more melting, more fraught with the deep sublime than that line? But Burns -- I confess my sense of his pre-eminence, Miss Heywood. If Scott has a fault, it is the want of passion. Tender, elegant, descriptive -- but tame. The man who cannot do justice to the attributes of woman is my contempt. Sometimes indeed a flash of feeling seems to irradiate him, as in the lines we were speaking of -- Oh. Woman in our hours of ease -- But Burns is always on fire. His soul was the altar in which lovely woman sat enshrined, his spirit truly breathed the immortal incense which is her due."
"I have read several of Burns's poems with great delight," said Charlotte as soon as she had time to speak. "But I am not poetic enough to separate a man's poetry entirely from his character; and poor Burns's known irregularities greatly interrupt my enjoyment of his lines. I have difficulty in depending on the truth of his feelings as a lover. I have not faith in the sincerity of the affections of a man of his description. He felt and he wrote and he forgot."
Jane Austen is tops for writing puppies and poppycocks.
Sanditon has an unusual amount of description for Austen. Even some descriptions of clothes, as well as shells and seaweed. I think that if she had lived to finish it, she would have cut out, streamlined, or put much of the description into dialogue. There is also an unusal amount of mystery. The last time there was any mystery was Frank Churchill or Mr Elliot. I think Jane was starting to get addicted.
One of my favorite lines:
Sir Edward's great object in life was to be seductive. With such personal advantages as he knew himself to possess, and such talents as he did also give himself credit for, he regarded it as his duty.
Meet Sir Edward Denham:
"Do you remember," said he, "Scott's beautiful lines on the sea? Oh! what a description they convey! They are never out of my thoughts when I walk here. That man who can read them unmoved must have the nerves of an assassin! Heaven defend me from meeting such a man unarmed."
"What description do you mean?" said Charlotte. "I remember none at this moment, of the sea, in either of Scott s poems.
"Do you not indeed? Nor can I exactly recall the beginning at this moment. But -- you cannot have forgotten his description of woman -- Oh. Woman in our hours of ease -- Delicious! Delicious! Had he written nothing more, he would have been immortal. And then again, that unequalled, unrivalled address to parental affection -- Some feelings are to mortals given With less of earth in them than heaven -- etcetera. But while we are on the subject of poetry, what think you, Miss Heywood, of Burns's lines to his Mary? Oh! there is pathos to madden one! If ever there was a man who felt, it was Burns. Montgomery has all the fire of poetry, Wordsworth has the true soul of it, Campbell in his pleasures of hope has touched the extreme of our sensations -- Like angels' visits, few and far between. Can you conceive anything more subduing, more melting, more fraught with the deep sublime than that line? But Burns -- I confess my sense of his pre-eminence, Miss Heywood. If Scott has a fault, it is the want of passion. Tender, elegant, descriptive -- but tame. The man who cannot do justice to the attributes of woman is my contempt. Sometimes indeed a flash of feeling seems to irradiate him, as in the lines we were speaking of -- Oh. Woman in our hours of ease -- But Burns is always on fire. His soul was the altar in which lovely woman sat enshrined, his spirit truly breathed the immortal incense which is her due."
"I have read several of Burns's poems with great delight," said Charlotte as soon as she had time to speak. "But I am not poetic enough to separate a man's poetry entirely from his character; and poor Burns's known irregularities greatly interrupt my enjoyment of his lines. I have difficulty in depending on the truth of his feelings as a lover. I have not faith in the sincerity of the affections of a man of his description. He felt and he wrote and he forgot."
Jane Austen is tops for writing puppies and poppycocks.
Sanditon has an unusual amount of description for Austen. Even some descriptions of clothes, as well as shells and seaweed. I think that if she had lived to finish it, she would have cut out, streamlined, or put much of the description into dialogue. There is also an unusal amount of mystery. The last time there was any mystery was Frank Churchill or Mr Elliot. I think Jane was starting to get addicted.
One of my favorite lines:
Sir Edward's great object in life was to be seductive. With such personal advantages as he knew himself to possess, and such talents as he did also give himself credit for, he regarded it as his duty.
Comments