It’s a sad day indeed when even my dear books are no consolation to me. I’m slogging through the last part of Pride and Prejudice and am coming to the conclusion that Jane Austen and I don’t see eye to eye. Which of course is not hardly likely since I’d have to understand what she’s talking about to even be able to disagree with her. I can barely make out one out of every two sentences she writes. And everybody agrees about how delightful she is. Makes me feel like a dunce. I’ll force myself to finish this book because I’ve pushed myself on this far, but may I just say that I don’t give a flying fuck what happens to Lydia at this point? (pardon my French) It’s sad to say I know, but Jane Austen makes me feel like giving up reading altogether. There. I’ve said it.
And then Portrait of a Lady, though I do understand Henry James’ English far better and even enjoy it, is just seeming more and more ominous and depressing. Oh dear. Maybe I need to find some lighter fare to get me through this patch.