'Rilla of Ingleside' by L.M. Montgomery

Or, 'The One set during the Great War'.

Note: If you haven't read this book, beware of spoilers as I've made no attempt to conceal major character deaths and survivals.

The moment in time nobody ever expected crashes down on the Blythe and Meredith families. It's 1914 and the world is plunged into years of war of an entirely vast and unprecedented scope. At one stage, Gilbert remarks that other famous battles from myth and history books have been dwarfed in comparison. The boys all enlist, leaving everyone at home dealing with the desperation and hopelessness of following their progress. Newspapers and telephone calls become things of intense dread. For Anne, the magical half hour before sleep becomes a time of torture. Yet the brave families waiting at home find ways to help with the war effort in their own unique ways, adding to the heroism required from everybody.  

Things I loved even more than before.

1) Dog Monday! I adore this devoted fur ball. He sits at the station and waits 4.5 years for his master to come home, helping his human friends deal with a particularly traumatic crisis in the process. Who could ever forget the powerful moment at the end when Jem Blythe finally steps off the train? I stumbled across an article which described how LMM was asked to do a reading from one of her books before a huge crowd, and chose that reunion scene. As she was reading, LMM apparently dissolved into tears herself, and the atmosphere in that 1920s lecture hall was electric. 

2) Walter! RIP you beautiful boy. He aimed to be an English literature professor but ended up as a dead war hero by the age of 22. His soul's horrific stand against the ugliness and malignity of war is very moving. So is his eventual triumph over terror and inner certainty that the rosiest post-war years could surely never appease him after all he was forced to witness. Walter was born in the wrong era; too pure and sensitive to process the ghastliness of it all. It's heartbreaking to think of all the creative beauty he still had to offer were he to live out his full lifespan. What a waste!

3) Jem! My word, I guess the change we see in this young man reflects the reaction of a bewildered world that hardly knew what hit it. Brought up on colourful tales of the romantic and chivalric side of war, he shoots off as a charged-up, energetic wannabe hero. At the end he hobbles off the train injured, subdued, and worn out way before his time. He'd spent years in the filthy trenches, and months as a prisoner of war, managing to escape a whole lot wiser than he'd ever bargained for. But he still considers it worthwhile to have poured out his strength to make the world a safer place for following generations. It all comes back to love. 

4) Rilla! The positive character development drawn from our title character by the Great War is a major theme. At the start, her mother Anne says she's 'lacking in responsibility and abominably vain.' But Rilla's shallowness and vanity is only along the lines of Amy March's, which I find easy to excuse in a young girl. (I get girls such as these, because I was a youngest sister too.) Rilla's war baby and Red Cross work are always fun to read about. I was glad to see she stuck to her guns and stayed uninterested in pursuing a tertiary education like her siblings. Being resistant to study is a valid choice, and Rilla makes a refreshing contrast to some of LMM's super-academic gals. 

5) The melancholic Miss Gertrude Oliver and her mystical, prophetic, nocturnal dreams. What a fascinating character she is. 

6) Susan! As the Blythes would say, what a brick! Rilla calls her a 'faithful old dear who would lay down her life for any one of them.' I love it when she tries to help Rilla out while she's entertaining Ken Ford. 

What I wasn't a big fan of this time.

1) I can see how the attitudes against Whiskers on the Moon might be problematic for some. Hmm, to my teenage mind, Mr Josiah Pryor was the dodgy blackguard who sympathised with the baddies. That seemed to be just what LMM wanted us to think. But any thoughtful 21st century reader surely has the perspective to step back and observe him with more clarity. The man considers himself a pacifist, yet those around him translate that to mean possible pro-German. Some go so far as to accuse him of being a spy and rejoice when his property is vandalised. I think today, more readers might be ready to sympathise with Whiskers on the Moon's point of view.

But we need to keep the book in its cultural pespective. LMM was writing with great immediacy, and for those whose sons and sweethearts were risking their lives for their country, old Whiskers' attitude was a huge kick in the gut. It was black and white for these people. In my own home city, German place names in the Adelaide Hills were being changed to more innocuous, British sounding alternatives. Anyone of German heritage or suspected of being sympathisers in any way were immediately intercepted, to wipe out any chance of threat. Suspicion was obviously the same in Canada, to the extent that Susan and the Blythes considered it retribution when he suffered a massive stroke! That sure reflects that emotional upheaval going on at the time. 

2) The final part in the story of Rilla's war orphan baby. I've got to wonder how the sudden change in little Jims' circumstances might have affected him. For all his life, the Ingleside folk were his family, then he's suddenly hustled off with a dad and stepmum who are total strangers to him. LMM's account makes it sound as if the transition was as easy as possible on Rilla, but how about Jims himself? Pretty traumatic for a 4-year-old boy I'd imagine, even if he wasn't moving very far away. Oh well, I guess that's another story. At least his stepmother was a nice lady.

3) Bruce Meredith's sacrifice of Stripey the kitten. OK, there is lots of horror from other reviewers about this incident. I was shocked too, but not as much as I was about the attempted murder of Rusty the stray tomcat in Anne of the Island. Bruce had the noblest intentions in mind, and his very action proves that Stripey was the dearest thing he had. He would never have committed such a drastic action for anything less than bringing Jem back, who was still wounded and missing at the time. But whoa, yeah, what a completely misguided action for a minister's son. (If only Nan Blythe had managed to slip in a word of warning to him, after her own attempts to bargain with God in Anne of Ingleside.)

4) Minister's kids weren't supposed to dance! What sort of silliness of the times was that?

5) Shirley's fluctuating age strikes again. In this book, the lucky dude seems to age at a slower rate than everyone else. He's described as 'a lad of 16' at the beginning in 1914, but then LMM has him enlisting in the airforce straight after his 18th birthday in 1917, when he should surely be 19 rather than 18. In fact if he was 18 as LMM claims, that would make him a matter of three months or so older than Rilla! Once again she didn't get her calculations right, making him the shapeshifter of the Blythe family.  

Some great quotes

Susan: Knitting is something you can do even when your heart is going like a trip hammer, and the pit of your stomach feels all gone, and your thoughts are catawampus. 

Walter: Life has always been such a beautiful thing to me, and now it is a hideous thing.

Gertrude: There have been many days when I didn't want to believe in God. I believe in Him now. I have to. There is nothing else to fall back on but God.

Gilbert: Would you have him stay, Anne? Would you have him so selfish and small-souled? (At the outset when Jem enlists.)

Walter: I'm going for my own sake, to save my soul alive. It will shrink to something small and mean and lifeless if I don't go.

Susan: There was a time when I did not care what happened outside of PEI and now a king cannot have a toothache in Russia or China but it worries me. 

Rilla: Perhaps some day a new kind of gladness will be born in my soul, but the old kind will never live again.

Jem: The old world is destroyed and we must build up the new one. It will be the task of years. I've seen enough of war to realise that we've got to make a world where wars can't happen.

Walter (who surely deserves the last word): It will be a better happiness. A happiness we've earned. 

Overall   

I guess we've come to the end, or have we? It's such wonderful family epic in eight books. The way I see it, it's sandwiched between two very significant train station incidents. At the start, we meet our optimistic, red-haired orphan girl, anxious to face the world and give life her best shot. Then finally on a different station platform, we have her tired son, having done that very thing to the best of his abilities. What a privilege to spend hours of my time with the Blythe and Meredith families again. Thank you Anne, Gilbert, Jem, Walter, Nan, Di, Shirley and Rilla! And I mustn't forget Susan. Also John, Rosemary, Jerry, Faith, Una, Carl and Bruce. Here is where I normally say stay tuned, because the next book is coming up. Well, we've sort of come to the end, but do stay tuned anyway, for the bonus Anne series material I have coming. I guess I can't get enough of these guys.  

Extra: I came across a wonderful, authentic, canon-friendly fan fiction to read in conjunction with Rilla of Ingleside. It's a epistolary story told in the form of the letters sent between the Blythe and Meredith boys in the trenches and their loved ones at college and home. We get to keep track of the romances of Jem and Faith, and Jerry and Nan in the loveliest way. The author very carefully wove it in to match the actual text itself, and reading them together was great. If you want to enjoy the experience too, you'll find it here.

'Life of Pi' by Yann Martel

Life of Pi is a fantasy adventure novel by Yann Martel published in 2001. The protagonist, Piscine Molitor "Pi" Patel, a Tamil boy from Pondicherry, explores issues of spirituality and practicality from an early age. He survives 227 days after a shipwreck while stranded on a boat in the Pacific Ocean with a Bengal tiger named Richard Parker.

MY THOUGHTS:  

Wow, it only seems fair that a book that blew me out of the water should be set on the ocean. The plot can be summed up in a sentence. Castaway boy survives for seven months in a lifeboat on the Pacific Ocean with a full grown Bengal tiger for company. It's written in three parts, and I spent most of Part Three saying, 'Aww, no way!' But there will be no spoilers because this is one book whose crux you can't un-remember. 

Suffice to say author Yann Martel had a metaphysical agenda in mind. He intentionally draws readers to the point where he challenges us to make a leap of faith one way or another. And he presses the point that it's not all that different from the choice people make every day to become atheists on one hand or devout believers on the other. I think he pulls it off with real panache. (Martel and his protagonist Pi seem to have least patience with agnostics, who they accuse of choosing doubt as a life philosophy. This, says Pi, is tantamount to choosing immobility as a means of transportation. He has no problems with atheists, who he considers brothers and sisters of a different faith. They simply get to the end of their reason and make a leap, just as he does.) 

Part One is all about Pi's boyhood in India, with a zookeeper for a father. Pi (full name Piscine Molitor Patel) is a seeker of truth from a tender age and follows three religions. He weaves all sorts of features from different religions into his own tailor made personal faith. He loves the sensual, colourful nature of his birthright faith, Hinduism, and its tenet that a bit of the divine runs through all creation. As a young teen he adds Christianity, because the concept of the suffering, sacrificial Son of God won't let go of him. Then finally he adds Islam to the mix, because he's so impressed by the all-encompassing unity of their call to prayer. When his parents urge him to narrow down to just one religion, Pi is unwilling to relinquish anything precious to him and surreptitiously keeps up all three. 

I guess some may say that young Pi is swayed by anything, and has no filter at all, while others may consider his filter is sensitive and refined enough to extract the most valuable essence from everything. As he says, 'I just want to love God!' This would make a fantastic text for anyone studying inter-faith doctrines, and the story has hardly even started rolling yet.

In Part Two, Pi relates his tale of incredible survival. The Patel family are on a ship heading for Canada when it sinks, leaving him the sole human survivor in a lifeboat with four animals. There's a motherly orangutan named Orange Juice, a gorgeous, suffering zebra with a broken leg and a wily, opportunistic spotted hyena. And most majestic of all is the stunning flame-coloured tiger, Richard Parker. Pi soon realises he has no choice but to train RP to understand that he, the skinny 16-year-old, is alpha animal on the boat. 

I can't describe how Martel pulls it all together without venturing into the sensitive landmine area of spoilers. I'll just finish off with a few general Pi-isms which he takes on board from his long ordeal on the water. First is his acceptance of the fact that sometimes life doesn't roll like we think it's supposed to. But what can we do but take each day as it comes and make the best of it? Pi grits his teeth and resolves to 'make miracle into routine' to the greatest extent in his power.

He delivers such stunning descriptions about all sorts of things, ranging from the nature of fear to his lifestyle on the water. Pi likens the Pacific Ocean to a huge city with highways and boulevards that he never noticed until he got the chance to stroll through at walking pace, so to speak. Reading his account is like the virtual tourism we'd never choose for ourselves, yet can't help finding quite awe-inspiring coming from Pi. He calls the barnacles 'oceanic hitchhikers.' 

And we can all learn something from his honesty about how he tackles the heavy blanket of despair whenever it descends. Basically, Pi figures the best ploy is to do nothing but wait it out, because it always passes. 'The blackness would stir and eventually go away, and God would remain a shining point of light in my heart, and I would go on loving.'

Even though we readers are used in a way as guinea pigs by Mr Martel, to prove the vital impact of a great story, I didn't mind at all. I way prefer Life of Pi to the other metaphysical book set on the high seas that springs to mind; Moby Dick.  

I'd recommend this one to anyone and everyone. And when you've read it, watch the movie too. It really keeps true to the book, and complements it beautifully.

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Unrooted

 

As an Aussie Gen X girl, I was slow to realise that being unrooted was possibly my problem. 

Australia is a young nation as far as British and European settlers are concerned. While millions of people around the world are comfortably rooted in their ancient settings and traditions that extend back to the year dot, we are a nation descended from a whole lot of restless wanderers. Some were outright crooks who had no choice but to come here. (I've met descendants of convicts hailing from the east coast or Tasmania.) But others were escaping from intolerable situations, which was the case with my South Aussie ancestors. Some of them were fleeing religious persecution in Germany, while the majority were from the British Isles and simply wanted to end serious poverty and make a fresh start. All the settlers had basically one thing in common. They were disgruntled folk in desperate straits fed up with their backgrounds.

So to put it bluntly, this hot, scorched land which mapmakers have set at the bottom of the world hasn't had time to twine its roots deeply into many of us white Aussies yet. It's only been a matter of a few hundred years. Our forebears simply lobbed here and started winging it incredibly recently in the grand scheme of things. I remember as a school kid being very envious of fellow students of more recent ethnic backgrounds who still had strong ties to their international food, costumes and traditions. Whenever I asked my mother about ours, I was told quite cheerfully that we are Australians and don't really have any. That didn't seem to bother her but disappointed me immensely.  

It's not just my background but my era that strips meaning from my life. We 21st century westerners live in an automated, increasingly digital  and computerised world. The generations just a few back from mine are the first who had no necessity to get up close and personal with the land for basic subsistence. I grew up knowing all we need is in the supermarket. From time to time we hear reports of some modern kids who don't even realise where their fruit, vegetables and meat come from beyond the packaging. I remember my own kids flinching when they discovered tiny feathers or flecks of chook poop on our free range eggs. Even this ease of being fed is a meaning stripper, when we compare our lot with times gone by. 

And we belong to a world where we are now encouraged to become anything and everything that takes our fancy. Being born at the end of a string of professionals who pass down a family livelihood to their children is greatly a thing of the past. On the surface this seems amazingly liberating, because ambition is limitless and nothing can theoretically stop us from becoming whatever we please. Yet when you think about it, this freedom is also a potential meaning stripper, leaving us uprooted like dandelion seeds. Especially those of us who fail to make a decent go of whatever we set our hearts on. 

So there I was, the youngest kid in a family born toward the latter end of the 20th century; an unrooted soul if ever anyone was. No family traditions, no real ties to the Aussie landscape, no generational occupation to instill pride and identity in me, no need to develop the patience of a green thumb just to survive, and no good reason to be aware of how my food comes to me. Just an untethered child left to float along and make her own random decisions with nothing tangible to grasp. I'm sure many others can relate to me here. It's hard to wrap our heads around this sort of emptiness while we're in it, but perhaps there's a very good reason for those vague feelings of restlessness and depression we can't account for in our youth. 

I recently read Sarah Wilson's latest book, This One Wild and Precious Life, and instantly got her drift. Sarah Wilson wrote that a major problem with our era is not feeling necessary. She goes on to describe how technology imposes a disconnected feeling. 'The moral aloneness of our guard rail free culture makes very little of what we actually do or care about seem important.' 

So what are we to do when we're a generation of emotionally disengaged sleepwalkers? Or when we feel more like dandelion seeds floating in the wind than necessary, meaningful craftspeople of our own lives?

Sarah Wilson suggests that we stay informed about the state of the world and never stop caring about the small stuff, such as returning texts, ditching bottled water in favour of metal bottles from home, shunning single use coffee cups and picking up our litter. Those automatic choices which take a moment are actually infused with meaning, when we stop to reflect.

But what else? Having identified this general malady of unrootedness while reading her book, I wanted to think of a couple of suggestions of my own. Here they are, for what they're worth. As I've said, I've identified myself as much a casualty of unrootedness as many others in our era, so I'm open to hearing more.

1) Decide on something meaningful to you and stick to it, no matter how it seems to be going over with everyone else. For me that might include writing this stuff out, writing in general, acknowledging good material that I've read and passing it on. In recent years I've homeschooled my three kids, which seemed like a very meaningful move, given their temperaments and the current school system. 

2) Research your background as much as possible. I actually benefited from my Dad's decision to do this very thing, once he was retired. He asked me to type his notes for him, which brought to light several British ancestors from Ireland and Scotland who were actually very brave and resourceful people. We Aussies are essentially unfamiliar with the land where we hail from, but learning these things is a step in the right direction and helps that feeling of disconnect dissipate. 

3) Consider spirituality. I didn't have this in my early years, since my parents had pulled the plug on a very mind-controlling sect from their past. Back then, Sunday mornings were just another opportunity to watch telly. But as a teenager, with the help of the books I read, I started researching my Christian background and realised it wasn't a matter of discovering something brand new, but of grafting myself back in to something ancient, true and vital I'd lost hold of.

4) Surround yourself with symbols. I've always been drawn to necklaces and key rings that depict the Tree of Life. Perhaps that's an irony suggesting that I craved for good, sound roots I didn't realise I'd grown up without.  

What would you add to this list? Can you relate to my reflection on unrootedness in any way? What works for you?      

'Rainbow Valley' by L. M. Montgomery

Or 'The one with the minister's kids.'

It's the 7th book in the Anne series, but the focus is on the new Presbyterian minister, John Meredith, and his young family. Mr Meredith is a widower preoccupied in his own head space while his four children, who love hanging out with the Blythe kids, virtually run amok. They intend no harm, but innocence of social cues is their undoing. They clearly need a woman's touch, but who'd marry such an airhead and hopeless dreamer? 

What I appreciated even more than before.

1) The four Meredith kids, and their lifestyle predicament. They simply do whatever takes their fancy without knowing it's frowned upon, because nobody has ever told them. Even when they try to screen their actions and hold themselves accountable, things turn pear-shaped. What a great example they are that 'naughty' may be completely arbitrary and unintentional. I love it when Anne defends them, but wish her audience had been wider than just Miss Cornelia and Susan on her front porch.  

2) The Meredith girls specifically. Faith is thought to have the wrong personality for a minister's daughter, because she laughs too much to please her father's congregation, yet she's expected to adapt to their sober demands rather than them accepting her as she is. Una is anxious and sweet, but when she musters her courage to make requests of people in the town, she gets results! 

3) The Meredith boys too. I love decisive Jerry with his great intentions, and gentle little Carl with his fascination for creepy crawlies. LMM is great at character development.

4) I really love it when Miss Cornelia decides to adopt Mary Vance. It's like Marilla and Anne all over again.

5) The state of the manse! Those descriptive bits went a bit unnoticed when I was a kid, but as the person chiefly responsible for housework for many years, I got a real laugh out of it this time round. Especially when Faith and Una decide to clean house. 

6) Walter Blythe, and his attempts to bolster his own courage. This beautiful boy really assumes the role of misunderstood genius in this book, and even takes on the mantle of a sort of prophetic bard. Not that anyone ever really listens to him, but we know the time until the Great War is moving steadily closer.  

7) Norman Douglas. What a good ally to have on your side, and a total legend. I love his macanacaddy.     

What I wasn't a big fan of this time round. 

1) What's up with Shirley Blythe? My calculations show that he's only slightly younger than Carl Meredith, who runs around Rainbow Valley with the rest of the gang. Yet Shirley is being cuddled by Susan and having her carry him to bed when he falls asleep. I've noticed his fluctuating age is a bit of a joke among hardcore LMM fans. In the case of Rainbow Valley, he should be around seven or eight years old at the beginning, but appears to be a toddler all through. 

2) Where are all the other Blythes? Walter gets featured in a nice story or two, but Jem and the twins don't appear as much as I'd hoped they would. And after Anne of Ingleside, I really missed them. 

3) The villain of the piece is Aunt Martha. The chapter about poor Adam horrifies me. If you haven't read the book yet, I'll let you experience it for yourself. A quick summary can't do it justice. I wonder if poor Faith ever got over it. 

4) At times, Mr Meredith irritated me chronically, and I wasn't inclined to brush off his shortcomings as LMM expected us to. The saying, 'he's so heavenly minded, he's of no earthly good,' could have been written about him. Surely being able to preach an interesting sermon doesn't make up for being completely clueless about what's happening beneath your own roof! Yet when I started thinking of him as a lost cause rather than a bad dad, I found myself mellowing a bit. He does have good intentions, but is so dreamy, they have no way of materialising (It's similar to me keeping my fridge crispers in pristine shape over the long term, but so much more at stake.) It's great when Rosemary West gets to marry him at the end, but man, I feel she's in for a frustrating time, more with her hubby than her stepkids.  

Some great quotes

Faith: I don't want to be like other people. I like being myself. It's more interesting.

Susan: I had an uncle who began by being a poet and ended up being a tramp. (She said that to discourage Walter from writing poetry, but I'm sure Susan's uncle was no random case.) 

Mary Vance: Your father's alright when he does wake up. It's a pity he doesn't wake up oftener. (You said it, Mary.) 

Faith: The things that don't seem a bit of harm to us seem simply dreadful to other people. How can we tell?

Miss Cornelia: What business has a man like that to have a family? He might as well be a monk.

Norman Douglas: A hundred a year to the salary and church once a month, but no spoiling good heathens to make poor Christians! 

Susan: Cornelia Elliot thinks she was born to run this world, Mrs Dr Dear, so she is always in a stew over something. I have never thought I was, so I go calmly along.

Miss Cornelia: We've just been shutting our eyes to the big worthwhile things and squinting them on the little things that don't really matter a pin's worth.

Walter Blythe: I'm not going to be frightened anymore, sir. Being frightened of things is worse than the things themselves.  

Jem Blythe: I'd give anything to see a big battle. Let the Piper come. (Nooooo!! He's going to regret saying that so much!) 

Okay, the time is finally here. Stay tuned, because next up will be the emotional roller coaster which is Rilla of Ingleside.

Bonus: I've never sought or read fan fiction before, but when it comes to the Blythe and Meredith kids, I thought I'd just have a look to see if there's anything out there that might fill in the gaps between the end of Rainbow Valley and the start of Rilla of Ingleside. And I stumbled upon this one. The author has stayed true to canon, setting and characters, and I was very impressed. 

'Sense and Sensibility' by Jane Austen

Marianne Dashwood wears her heart on her sleeve, and when she falls in love with the dashing but unsuitable John Willoughby she ignores her sister Elinor's warning that her impulsive behaviour leaves her open to gossip and innuendo. Meanwhile Elinor, always sensitive to social convention, is struggling to conceal her own romantic disappointment, even from those closest to her. Through their parallel experience of love—and its threatened loss—the sisters learn that sense must mix with sensibility if they are to find personal happiness in a society where status and money govern the rules of love.

MY THOUGHTS:

This is a re-read, the last time being long ago. Basically, it's a probing story about the opposite reactions shown by the two Dashwood sisters when it looks as if bust-ups with their respective boyfriends are inevitable. Marianne is an intense, hysterical girl with no self-command or emotional backbone to help her weather the blow, but then there is Elinor, who has sense enough to refrain from non-productive histrionics, even though she feels just as bereft and horrible.

She's often overlooked by readers, but Elinor Dashwood is now my favourite Jane Austen heroine, especially in the role model sense. She has a kind heart, yet her bulldust radar is so finely tuned, she won't be duped by anybody. There's no way an ulterior motive can slip past this girl, yet she doesn't hold it against people. She's canny but not cynical. She can sniff a phony a mile off, yet still gives others the common kindness and courtesy she believes anyone deserves. Such acute perception doesn't always go hand in hand with such generosity, and I salute her for it. Another thing Elinor doesn't do is wear her feelings on her sleeve to be seen by all, yet Austen makes it clear that she feels them no less deeply. 

I also cheer her love interest, Edward Ferrars, a young man brought up in a ridiculously showy and pretentious family unit who persists in believing that a modest, quiet life will suit him to a tee. He actually reminds me of my husband. Edward is never one for flowery expressions and earnest creativity himself, yet is willing to listen to those who are. His supreme moment, of course, is when he allows his family to disown him for the sake of the principle at stake, even though it's not at all to his own benefit to dig in his heels. What an honourable guy!  

Oh gosh, Marianne's meltdown lasted months! What a girl to place all her eggs in one basket. Having a fixed and one-track mind might sound romantic, but Austen suggests through Marianne that it's a recipe for misery. Her rudeness and contempt for well-meaning friends does her no favours either. She just doesn't grasp that self-command and self-distraction are reasonable coping tools, and simply assumes Elinor doesn't feel as deeply as she does. Or at least, she doesn't start getting it until the end of the story. 

One thing I've notice divide readers is whether or not the handsome young bounder Willoughby deserves our sympathy, when we discover that he regrets jilting Marianne after all. It's a 'No way!' from me. How dare he ghost her, leaving her to wonder whatever she did to upset him, rather than being man enough to at least own up about his predicament. His callous treatment of other young women as playthings clinches it. At best he's a selfish brat who looks out for Number One, and at worst he's a dangerous jerk who preys on, and ruins, innocent lives. 

I think Elinor nails it when she basically says that Willoughby pines for Marianne just because she's forbidden fruit, and that if he had married her, he'd surely notice greener grass elsewhere before long. (Yet having said that, I admit to being glad his life wasn't too bad in the final wrap-up. Although we readers see through him, Austen has a way proving that we're not immune to a cute face and cheery smile.) 

Oh, if only the alternative she'd written for Marianne got my thumbs up! It's the most disturbing part for me. The Marianne/Colonel Brandon match strikes me as terribly wrong on so many different levels! Sure, he's a good egg and a great catch, but not for this girl! She was clearly still on the rebound from Willoughby when her family started hatching their plan. Marianne had never spared one romantic thought for the colonel to justify her loved-ones' scheming. She'd always regarded him as a sort of asexual, grave, paternal gentleman who's way too old for her. 

Things were different in the Regency Era, but a 36-year-old guy with the hots for a 17-year-old girl does seem way creepy. Especially when he's the guardian of another girl her same age, and she reminds him of that girl's mother, who he once had a passion for. But the coercion from all sides for Marianne to marry him comes on the heels of her genuine regret for the trouble she'd caused everyone, and her desire to make amends. I can't help feeling they all just wore her down, and there's no way she could muster the sensual feelings a girl should feel for her husband. Nope, I can't believe this is a rational decision from either Marianne Dashwood or Jane Austen. In fact, it could be one of my least favourite Austen decisions ever.  

Luckily for me I back Elinor and Edward all the way, or the book might have been one big letdown, as far as romantic stakes go. Not only are they a more reasonable age for each other, but they both lack personal greed and have plenty of understanding for others. That's a great combo for a marriage, and they'll surely go from strength to strength. When your ambitions and expectations are modest, happiness is far more attainable.  

One extra thing that sticks in my mind is the pleasant dynamics in the Dashwood home, including the affection each of the girls is willing to extend toward her sister's boyfriend, teasing them like real brothers. I think Willoughby missed out on far more than he ever realised by his final decision. 

So all up, this book is a bit of a pendulum for me, when it comes to Jane Austen. Favourite heroine - Elinor Dashwood. Least favourite match - Marianne and Colonel Brandon. Perhaps they cancel each other out. 

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Great, comforting death scenes from novels

In February 2017, my beloved Dad passed away quite unexpectedly. He'd been ailing with one thing or another for some time, so his death was on the distant horizon, but still felt quite sudden to us all when it came. Earlier that week, he'd tumbled over at home. Mum couldn't manage to help him up, so she called an ambulance, and the medics decided to take him to hospital, where he really didn't want to go. Her last glimpse of him was being wheeled out the door pleading, 'No, not the hospital!' 

He was kept under observation for a few days and given the all-clear to return home the following Monday. But on Saturday morning, we received news that he'd had a sudden massive heart attack. We all rushed from different places to get to him, and my carload got to the hospital first. After navigating the maze of corridors, we made it to the ward just ten minutes after his official time of death. The nurse told me, 'I'm so sorry,' and it felt surreal.   

She had been with him until the end, and assured us that when she asked if he was in pain, he replied no. And his speech was legible almost until his final breath. The others trickled in as we were speaking. My brother and his family had been to get Mum, a couple of other nephews caught a taxi, and our sister was living far away in Cairns at the time. 

It was such an emotional morning, losing someone who'd been a fixture our entire lives, but I couldn't shake the impression that he probably knew what was happening every minute. Although he'd resisted being taken to hospital, he wouldn't have wanted to die at home and have Mum walk in and discover him. He was a devoted Dad and Papa, but always shied away from appearing vulnerable or being the centre of attention. A stoic worry-wort is what he was. I've no doubt he would have been distressed beyond measure to see our faces surrounding him in those last moments. Quietly sliding to the next world from somewhere other than home, ten minutes before we arrived would have suited him to a tee.

 I know nothing about final passage phenomenons beyond what I've read. The research of experts in the field of near death experiences, such as Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, Raymond Moody and John Burke has always intrigued me.  In several ways, I wouldn't be at all surprised if some orchestration or pulling of strings to suit Dad's wishes might have come into play. Of course we couldn't ask him, but knowing him as well as we did, several of his boxes seemed to be ticked.

Since Dad's death, my middle-aged mortality has been more in my mind than ever. (In fact, see this reflection here for more.) I don't want to waste a minute of time or be needlessly moody any more, because our days are all numbered, and our number will be up some day. I have no idea what that moment will be like, but our recent experience with Dad actually gives me some hope that it may be gentler and more welcome than we might imagine. Here are some favourite death scenes from novels that have struck a chord with me. They all possess some comforting commonality. We can only hope their authors were drawing from something vast and true.     

1) Anne of the Island

As a kid, I found poor Ruby Gillis' death from consumption confronting and scary. She was only in her early twenties, and wanted so badly to marry her sweetheart and start a family. Deep down, Ruby knew the truth her family and friends were hiding from her. Her days on earth were dwindling rapidly. At last she faces facts and confides to Anne her great fear that she'll feel frightfully homesick and out of her element in heaven, because it won't be what she's used to. Her heart is still set on things of earth, and she resents being torn away to the next world way before she's ready. Wow, heavy stuff!

With a stroke of insight, Anne describes her strong belief that heaven will be a comfortable extension of our current lives in which we can continue being ourselves, but just minus all the the hindrances and annoyances that dog our mortal footsteps. A few days later Ruby dies in her sleep with a smile on her face, 'as if death has come as a kindly friend to lead her over the threshold' instead of the terror she feared. (See my review of the whole book.)

2) Watership Down

Hazel, the leader of the group of rabbits, has grown old and slow, and feels the cold a lot. One day he wakes from his regular doze to find a rabbit with faintly glowing ears waiting beside him. The stranger says he knows Hazel has been feeling very tired lately, but he can do something about that if Hazel is willing. It suddenly dawns on our friend that his visitor is none other than El-Ehrairah, the hero rabbit from their favourite legends. 

As they hop out the burrow, it seems to Hazel that 'he will not be needing his body any more.  'So he leaves it lying on the edge of the ditch, but stops for a moment to get used to the extraordinary feeling of strength and speed flowing through him.' It's a beautiful reward for someone who has come to the end of a long, faithful and productive life. How gentle and happily surprising his exit was. (My review in its entirety is here.)

3) In This House of Brede

The setting is a convent full of nuns. Beloved Dame Emily has been old and sick for several years, and is now 'frail as spun glass.' As the others keep vigil, Dame Philippa senses that something wonderful is happening. 'The world seemed to be filled with expectancy of something tremendous, just out of sight, waiting for Dame Emily.' The impression gets thicker that all around her is 'a joyful kind of window through which had she the eyes she could have looked straight into heaven. But it's only the dying or the very holy who have eyes like that.' 

Indeed, when Emily passes away, Philippa sees a bird soaring to the sky at the exact same moment. It's an awesome picture of something we find threatening and fearful being turned on its head. That day death presents itself at Brede as the triumphant finish line of a great victorious journey. (See my review.) 

4) Death Comes for the Archbishop

The novel's title sounds ominous, but as we read we come to understand that it indicates a final prize of gold medal status. The looming appointment does catch up with main character Father Latour, but only in his twilight years. After catching a bit of a chill while out on his rounds, he realises that it will be his final illness. He lies in bed, facing his demise in a super-reflective and peaceful state of mind. 'I shall not die of cold, my son,' he tells his young protege. 'I shall die of having lived.' One thing I've taken away from this great book is the great anticipation and relish with which Father Latour faces death. (My review is here.) 

Whew, some blog posts are harder to write than others, and that was one of them. But the theme for this list kept playing in my mind, so had to be done. Have you any great or comforting death scenes from novels or stories to add to mine?