Still reading Bronte’s Shirley. There’s a interesting bit in it about how ladies got sick during the Victorian era:
How she had caught the fever (fever it was) she could not tell. Probably in her late walk home, some sweet, poisoned breeze, redolent of honey-dew and miasma, had passed into her lungs and veins, and finding there already a fever of mental excitement, and a languor of long conflict and habitual sadness, had fanned the spark to flame, and left a well-lit fire behind it.
Don’t worry, some good news can cure you!
“I sometimes think if an abundant gush of happiness came on me I could revive yet.”
But will there be good news, reader? Will there? And will it be in time?
Also reading Stumbling on Happiness, the Freakonomics of pyschology. There’s a lot of eye-opening stuff in it.
And still enjoying those wild adventures of super-criminal Arsene Lupin, currently in a volume called The Hollow Needle.
I gave a copy of “The Stainless Steel Rat is Born” to the person who turned me onto Lupin. Very similar spirit at work in the books.
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