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Emma Woodhouse’s father was brought into this world, blinking and confused, on one of those final nail-biting days of the Cuban Missile Crisis.
To dispatch one’s friends to a dictionary from time to time is one of the more sophisticated pleasures of life, but it is one that must be indulged in sparingly: to do it too often may result in accusations of having swallowed one’s own dictionary, which is not a compliment, whichever way one looks at it.
She was certain; she knew what lay ahead of her: she would continue to be pretty, clever, and rich. That did not include getting married: pretty, clever, and rich people did not have to bother with such things.
Disinclination to discuss a subject that needs to be discussed is never a solution: the topic merely assumes increasing prominence the longer it remains untouched.
“If you were a Catholic,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “you would have no difficulty with the idea of sitting around and doing nothing. That has never been a problem for Catholicism; it is only the Protestant outlook that makes us feel guilty about not being busy.” “Oh, really,” she began, “this is nothing to do with John Knox, or Calvin for that matter.”
Some people were just worriers, and there were worse things for a parent to be. The father of one of her university friends was a psychopath, she believed; he was a successful politician, but a psychopath nonetheless. If one had to choose between a worrier and a psychopath, she was in no doubt as to which she would choose. And indeed if one had to choose between a worrier and a politician, the same choice might be made.
“He’s actually called the Holy Spirit these days. Holy Ghost is very old hat.”
“All I’m saying is that Miss Bates is not well off and must feel a little bit insecure.” “Which is no excuse for being a bore,” said Emma quickly. “But don’t worry, I’d never say anything to her face. Please credit me with some tact.”
Who said, “…changed, changed utterly”? Some poet they had studied at Gresham’s. Yeats or Keats: their names were so close that nobody could be blamed for mixing them up.
“That particularly applies to politicians. Those people do not wish to appear elitist and seem to believe that to be well-informed and to speak correctly—that is, to use subjects, objects, and verbs in their sentences, indeed to use sentences at all—is a sign of elitism and therefore to be avoided at all costs.”
We all think something, all the time—the human brain being so constructed—even if it is not necessarily of great consequence. This does not deter many of us, though, from sharing those thoughts—even those of decidedly little consequence.
