The problem of course with non-fiction stories of one’s life, is that it can’t always be tidied into a bundle of joy. It cannot begin poorly, then circumstances only worsen until our heroine ultimately gets all she deserves and all she’d ever dreamed possible. This can happen in stories of sisters, stories of love, two that begin hating each other, where there are misjudgments and wrongful assumptions, eventually all brought to life, prompting her to run to him (always in the rain), to lose her composure, and he won’t need an explanation. This is the way it happens in tales, in novels where stubborn is softened, where well-meaning stops meddling.
Life is sad when it doesn’t end up as we’ve imagined it for ourselves. In the books, these women who swooned and lived with passion, ultimately suffered from their grand illusions, usually falling in love with the idea of love, too fast. From their suffering always arises a new view, more compassionate, sensible. Not as fast to judge, to be as hard, open-minded, looking for someone gentle, someone noble, who’ll always care for her heart. Who’ll always adore her.
Let us take Marianne from Sense & Sensibility. Now that she’s married to The Colonel Brandon, what truly is her temperament? She plays her piano forte. He still adores her, gets her all the things she’d ever hoped for, hopes to bring her every happiness. If she had a blog, she’d be writing how she still thinks of Willoughby.