Enter Mr Rochester

The first thing he does is fall off his horse. It's a Don Quixote moment. In the movie- as I remember- it's the apparition of Jane in the darkening lane that makes the horse shy and rear. Ooh gothick!. In the book the horse trots past Jane without incident, then slips on ice. Bump, He comes off. And swears a lot.

Bronte knows how to mix it up. A romantic setting, twilight, the rising moon, intimations of the supernatural. is the dog a gytrash? is the horse a gytrash? Then whoopsadaisy-  there's a man down. Is he badly hurt? Naah, it's just a sprain. .

Bronte breaks down even as she builds up. She adores the gothick. She thinks the gothick is silly. She blends gothickism and silliness into a smooth even paste.

Mr Rochester takes the book over. It used to be Jane's book; now it's his. He lounges and declaims- with his foot up on a stool because of the sprain.  He's very romantic, very Yorkshire- half Lord Byron, half Geoff Boycott. He balloons with magnificently wordy self-contempt- and cool Jane slips under his guard with a hat-pin. No wonder he falls in love.

One expects a Victorian novelist to be coy. I don't know why but it's a prejudice we've been encouraged in. Some of them are coy- Dickens for instance; he never saw a prossie he couldn't find a euphemism for. He hates the evangelicals but he's been infected with their cant. Bronte ain't that way; she grew up in a vicarage so she's worldly-wise; she calls a French mistress a French mistress and no beating about the bush. The story of Rochester's Parisian amour is as tough minded as anything in Balzac. She's frank, she's sensual, she's withering. She has none of the Victorian whimsy about children either. Adele is nothing special, not very bright. If it were now she'd be dressing up as a Disney princess. The child is mother to the woman- nice kid; don't expect too much of her; her Daddy certainly doesn't. If this was Dickens (again) Rochester would be in awful trouble for this attitude of his. Bronte and Jane are far too sensible for that.

Here comes the madwoman. Demonic laughter at the keyhole. So far so ghastly. Now Mr Rochester is on fire! O no! So Jane puts him out with a jug full of water.  Mr Darcy wet shirt moment! Mr Rochester forbids Jane to look. Does he have a boner? "Don't leave me Jane". "Sorry but I have to." Firm manly handshake. Oh, but this is wonderful stuff.....

Please Resign Now, Nick, Before You Do Yourself Any More Damage

I know you got flustered (not something a political leader should allow to happen) but that outburst of yours was ugly. Your totalitarian instincts were showing. So you believe the only people who should be allowed to investigate the Rennard cock-up is some bunch of insiders you've appointed yourself? Ever hear of a Free Press?

On a lighter note let me run some names past you- Sherlock Holmes, Lord Peter Wimsey, Miss Marple, the Famous Five- Any of these ring any bells? Or again,  how about Bernstein and Woodward? In our shared culture (at least I thought we shared it- you're a liberal, aren't you?)- the "self-appointed detectives" are the good guys.

Eek!

Ailz received a "free gift" of some super-duper kitchen knives today. We have a lot of cutlery and related kitchenalia- more than we want or ever use- and it seemed like a spring clean was in order. Out with the old, in with the new.

The knackered bits and pieces go in the bin, the things that are still fine but surplus to requirement go to the charity shop, the aprons and tea towels go in the washing machine, the dead mouse.........

Ailz says she feels sorry for it.  Me  too, I suppose.

There Were Times...

... "When it seemed the Lord was sleeping".

No, the Pope wasn't hinting that he'd lost his faith.  He was referencing the story of the storm on the Lake of Galilee (Mark 4, 35-41)- the point of which is that we must carry on trusting in God even when he seems to have abandoned us.