Wentworth may have been half agony and half hope when confessing his feelings for Anne Elliot, but that certainly isn't the case for me today. More like half excitement, half contentment. It seems fitting when celebrating such a figure as Jane Austen.
Fair warning: the following post may overuse adjectives and trek into nonsensical territory. Bear with me. Or don't. You've been warned.
Today marks the 238th birthday for Jane and damn, girl is looking fine at her advanced age. Proof: Her novels still line the shelves of bookstores, with an accompanying film for each, her quotes are regularly used as inspiration for some pretty hilarious articles, and there is now a ten pound bank note from the Bank of England in her honor. Not bad for a woman who I doubt ever realized the kind of iconic status she would achieve years after her passing.
It's hard for me not to shout my public declarations of affection from the rooftop, but I'll try. Also, it's probably a bad idea to be on the roof.









