Emma

It's interesting how great literature seems to change over the course of your life while, in reality, it is the reader that is doing the changing.

I reread Jane Austen's Emma the other day and thought about when I read it the first time at age 20. At the time I probably most identified with Frank Churchill, the young dashing fellow sweeping into town and charming the attractive young ladies. I think we can all agree that that was me all over. I also remember thinking that Emma was just my type. Later on, as a parent, I felt more like Mr. Knightley dispensing advice, wisdom, and a well-timed correction now and then.

Nowadays, I seem to be slipping into Mr. Woodhouse territory. Poor Anna and poor Becky. Why did they have to leave? We were so comfortable when we were all together, why must anything change? They always seem in such poor spirits when they leave home.

Next I'll be looking forward to a nice dish of gruel before bedtime. It would not be unwholesome.