Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict

I cannot imagine a world in which one can read Jane Austen only once.

I self-medicate with fat, carbohydrates, and Jane Austen, my number one drug of choice, my constant companion through every breakup, every disappointment, every crisis. Men might come and go, but Jane Austen was always there. In sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, till death do us part.

Be where you are right now. Live your life. You are only hurting your chances by struggling so . . . .

Most intelligent men and women like to go forth into the world and stalk their own prey, choose their own mirrors of dysfunction . . . .

Just be where you are. That is the only way to get where you're supposed to go.

I would self-medicate with fat, carbohydrates, and Jane Austen, my number one drug of choice, my constant companion through every breakup, every disappointment, every crisis. Men might come and go, but Jane Austen was always there in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, till death do us part.

They say the truth will set you free, but what nobody tells you is that sometimes the truth will also make you miserable.

Tonight, however, all I can think of is the juxtaposition of destiny and free will, and whether it makes no difference what I do, or all the difference in the world.

You know, it is a little known fact that thinking is entirely overrated. The world would be a much better place if we all did a lot less of it

What she said was something about trusting that everything, no matter how horrible it might seem at the moment, ultimately turns out to be a blessing.

But see, that's the thing about movies. Nothing is left to the imagination. You read a book, and you see a picture of the characters and the scenes in your mind. You don't have that with a movie. It's all either up there on the screen laid out for you, or it isn't there at all.

None of my friends knows that most of the sick days I've taken from work are not sick days, but Austen days.

What Martha Stewart-like demon of a Stepford wife is possessing me?

...and I decide to stop inwardly composing the feminist world court's prosecutorial summation to the jury.

What couldn't I do now, having already committed such a breach of fashion logic and lived to tell the tale? Why couldn't I pretend to be a woman with a solid core of self-worth, who likes herself no matter what the nearest handsome man or evil mother thinks of her?

Only a fool would wish to go back who he was.

Our heart chooses for us, or a tiny whisper inside that is too faint for us to hear.

God forbid the wife should have prior knowledge of sex, let alone enjoy it.

Men might come and go, but Jane Austen was always there.

I resent it being a truth universally acknowledged, no matter what era I find myself in, that a single woman of thirty must be in want of a husband.

Men might come and go, but Jane Austen was always there. In sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, till death do us part.

It's bad enough to be a baby-making machine with no epidural in sight in exchange for the state-sanctioned title of 'Mrs' before one's name. But to be a 'Miss' with an ever-increasing brood of children, just waiting for the man to grow weary of stretch marks and spit-ups? No thank you?

Those who want the truth, get truth. Those who want lies, get lies no matter what I say.

Here is an unbroken space in which a woman and a man may with the full sanction of society, practically make love to each other with their eyes, their fleeting touch, and the display of their bodies. Emblem of marriage, indeed.

I will not allow myself to entertain that though. Yeah, right. I'm not only entertaining that though, I'm taking it out to dinner and a movie. The goal is to focus on the now and to figure out how to reclaim your past. Or the parallel. Or my sanity. Too much thinking never solved anything.

Mom is mostly interested in my life inasmuch as it affects her own. Fact is, despite her selfishness, or maybe even because or it, I can always ask Mom for help in a pinch. She seems to get on some kind of high fueled by maternal hormones and self-importance whenever I'm in extremis. Suddenly, she develops an in-depth interest in my life, feeding of the drama like a soap opera junkie anxious for the next installment. My breakups, heartbreaks, and financial crises give her something to talk about with her friends, especially her role as glorified rescuer of the distressed. Inevitably, whenever I emerge from a crisis and get my life back to normal, dear Mom lapses back into her routine lack of interest.