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It's being a perfect Labour Day weekend, first time in living memory: not too hot, not too cold, deep blue skies, occasional white clouds. So a pity I stayed in all yesterday, hiding from the air show, and only went out for a massage today. But did read a murder mystery in which, amusingly, the murderer was Emma Woodhouse near as dammit. I notice this time that Mrs. Elton is appalling, not merely because she's appalling, but because she abrogates to herself position and privileges that Emma thinks are hers by right. Umm yeah, 'a disposition to think too well of herself' indeed. But I'm not sure Austen means that in a social sense as well as a personal one. Maybe Austen thinks Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield really should be the queen bee of the village. Lord, but the 19th century English were as nice and finely graded in their social ranking as the Japanese, though at least in England you didn't have to decide which form of which verb to use with which people.
Granted that female hysteria is a running sub-motif in the book, I'm still of two minds about Miss Bates. I hate talkers because I hate to be talked at. Talkers take the position 'I want someone to talk at, you're going to be it, and what you want doesn't matter.' Drives me batty. But Miss Bates is always in company and is always talking at everybody, which maybe mitigates it somewhat? but still. If she knows it gets on people's nerves, why doesn't she just stop? At home I can imagine she'd drive Jane up the wall. Highbury is criminally forebearing when it comes to selfish horrors, like Mr. Woodhouse. And that, I assume, is also part of the class system?
The massage today did that odd thing where it makes my bad knee worse, so I will see if I get to laundry tomorrow, either at home or at the laundromat or both. As also the back yard with its vines and unwanted bushes. Thursday will rain, which may start the long rains of autumn, so must be done soonish.
Slept to noon for no good reason and dreamed of being in Florence, at a hostel, trying to wash my underwear while some ill-natured girl hogged the washers or wouldn't give me change or something. I was down to my last two pairs of underpants and asked the woman who ran the hostel, who was our business coordinator from the daycare, where I could buy new ones. But underwear was the monopoly of an Italian noblewoman, a Marchioness who wouldn't let just anyone buy underpants. That was really not worth sleeping in for.
Granted that female hysteria is a running sub-motif in the book, I'm still of two minds about Miss Bates. I hate talkers because I hate to be talked at. Talkers take the position 'I want someone to talk at, you're going to be it, and what you want doesn't matter.' Drives me batty. But Miss Bates is always in company and is always talking at everybody, which maybe mitigates it somewhat? but still. If she knows it gets on people's nerves, why doesn't she just stop? At home I can imagine she'd drive Jane up the wall. Highbury is criminally forebearing when it comes to selfish horrors, like Mr. Woodhouse. And that, I assume, is also part of the class system?
The massage today did that odd thing where it makes my bad knee worse, so I will see if I get to laundry tomorrow, either at home or at the laundromat or both. As also the back yard with its vines and unwanted bushes. Thursday will rain, which may start the long rains of autumn, so must be done soonish.
Slept to noon for no good reason and dreamed of being in Florence, at a hostel, trying to wash my underwear while some ill-natured girl hogged the washers or wouldn't give me change or something. I was down to my last two pairs of underpants and asked the woman who ran the hostel, who was our business coordinator from the daycare, where I could buy new ones. But underwear was the monopoly of an Italian noblewoman, a Marchioness who wouldn't let just anyone buy underpants. That was really not worth sleeping in for.