I pay very little regard...to what any young person says on the subject of marriage. If they profess a disinclination for it, I only set it down that they have not yet seen the right person.
Jane AustenRead
I . . . am always half afraid of finding a clever novel too clever--& of finding my own story & my own people all forestalled.
Interpretation
The quote reflects a fear of originality being stifled by the cleverness of others and an anxiety about being outdone in storytelling.
In this quote, Jane Austen expresses a common apprehension among writers: the fear that their narratives and characters may be overshadowed by the brilliance of other literary works. It reveals an inner conflict between the desire for originality and the recognition of the vast landscape of literature, where one might feel their unique voice is eclipsed by others' creativity and ingenuity.
In practice
In a literature class discussion about writer's block.
I pay very little regard...to what any young person says on the subject of marriage. If they profess a disinclination for it, I only set it down that they have not yet seen the right person.
Nobody could catch cold by the sea; nobody wanted appetite by the sea; nobody wanted spirits; nobody wanted strength. Sea air was healing, softening, relaxing - fortifying and bracing - seemingly just as was wanted - sometimes one, sometimes the other. If the sea breeze failed, the seabath was the certain corrective; and where bathing disagreed, the sea air alone was evidently designed by nature for the cure.
He certainly is very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a stupider person.
A person who is knowingly bent on bad behavior, gets upset when better behavior is expected of them.
You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever.
She hoped to be wise and reasonable in time; but alas! Alas! She must confess to herself that she was not wise yet.
The problem is we need much more moral content.
Science fiction is very well suited to asking philosophical questions; questions about the nature of reality, what it means to be human, how do we know the things that we think we know.
Personalization is everywhere. We are constantly asked, directly or indirectly, to create Our Own Whatever - containing and limited to our 'favorite sources of information.' Republicans do that; Democrats do it; environmentalists do it; terrorists do it; science fiction enthusiasts do it. That's a real problem, I think.
Europe has what we do not have yet, a sense of the mysterious and inexorable limits of life, a sense, in a word, of tragedy. And we have what they sorely need: a sense of life's possibilities.
The potential beauty of human life is constantly made ugly by man's ever-recurring song of retaliation.
What's wrong with men?" Tenar inquired cautiously. As cautiously, lowering her voice, Moss replied, "I don't know, my dearie. I've thought on it. Often I've thought on it. The best I can say it is like this. A man's in his skin, see, like a nut in its shell." She held up her long, bent, wet fingers as if holding a walnut. "It's hard and strong, that shell, and it's all full of him. Full of grand man-meat, man-self. And that's all. That's all there is. It's all him and nothing else, inside.
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