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Why you should read Northanger Abbey

Northanger Abbey frequently scores second on polls of least liked Austen novel, but I honestly don’t know why because it’s awesome. So let me try to convince you to read it…

Northanger Abbey: Everything you could wish for in a novel!

The Most Attractive Leading Man in Austen: I know you think you want Darcy, but do you really want a man who can’t take a joke? How about instead of insulting you at the assembly, he dances with you and makes you laugh! Surveys reveal that “makes me laugh” is a consistently attractive trait in a future spouse. Besides being extraordinarily funny, he also will willingly take you dress shopping, loves his sister, and reads novels. Shall we agree that he is the perfect man?

Most Relatable Leading Lady: Despite having a good education, are you sometimes a little lost in a conversation? Are you reasonably good looking, passably intelligent, and only somewhat accomplished? Catherine Morland is just a normal, everyday girl who stands up against peer pressure and falls head-over-heels in love with a cute guy. If she could be born to be a heroine, than all of us can be!

Villains So Well Drawn You Will Swear you Met Them Yesterday: Have you met a guy who constantly brags about his vehicle, talks without actually saying anything, and who assumes that girls will go for him even though he has nothing to recommend him? I have, and so has Jane Austen, its John Thorpe! Isabella is a classic drama queen who is dating a really sweet nerd but angling for the football star. You knew her in high school, I guarantee it.

Highly quotable one liners:

“I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible.”

“The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.”

“His departure gave Catherine the first experimental conviction that a loss may be sometimes a gain.”

Great life lessons: 

“No man is offended by another man’s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment.”

“Beware how you give your heart.”

“Our pleasures in this world are always to be paid for.”

and best of all, a passionate defence of reading novels from the Narrator, who continues to be sarcastic and hilarious throughout the novel.

Northanger Abbey, honestly, what’s not to love?

I wondered why green is so associated with hope and then I remembered being 8 and seeing a little plant sprout after a few days of waiting and. Yeah. I get it now.

An Englishman, a Frenchman, a Spaniard, and a German are watching a juggler perform in the street 

The juggler notices the four men have a poor view of the show, so he stands on a crate so they may get a better view. He then asks them if they can now see the show. They reply

Yes

Oui

Si

Ja

An unusual Georgian-era pendant with imagery associated with mourning, however the images are composed entirely of micro-calligraphy text recalling the dates of death, and biblical verses. Extremely rare. Images on both sides. The case is gold filled.

(eriebasin.com)

This makes me so angry right now. Like I know that pitchfork mobs have low return on investment for increasing net justice in a society but right now my brain keeps going

(also good luck getting a very big mob to fight for the rights of the homeless, handicapped, or criminals)

out of court. 18 months, 16 with good behavior, of not being able to carry any weapon or drink alcohol or do crimes :(:(

Lol, some interactions you can't write because it would significantly change the vibe of your story. Such as destroying the the main characters home 🤯.

Jane Austen didn't make Mrs Bennet aware of Mr Darcy's first proposal to Elizabeth because she could not find a plausible reason to write "Mrs Bennet explodes out of sheer outrage at her daughter's stupidity and takes out a good portion of Longbourn with her".

From the moment they met, Bingley's love for Jane was constant and unwavering. Bingley, for all his endearing golden retriever-esque cheer and exuberance, is humble to the point of insecurity. So he's all too ready to believe it when Darcy, the person whose opinion and judgment he values most in this world, informs Bingley that Jane doesn't seem genuinely interested in him. Bingley never once doubts how deeply he cares for Jane - he just lets himself believe that Jane doesn't love him in return.

I saw something (not here - it was on an inferior website lol!) about how Bingley is the type to stray and just mindlessly fall for every pretty girl who crosses his path, but there's actually less than zero evidence of that. He loves Jane and ONLY Jane - but since he and Jane don't possess enough of the novel's titular 'pride' while Darcy and Elizabeth initially have too much of it, Bingley just didn't allow himself to believe that someone as lovely and sweet as Jane reciprocated those feelings. Even during those months apart, rather than latching onto another infatuation, Bingley continued to pine over Jane and his feelings remained strong and true. I'm the unofficial captain of the Charles Bingley Defense Squad in case anyone else wants to join ;)

@missielynne , I had to tag my fellow Jane/Bingley lover!

please please please please reblog if you’re a writer and have at some point felt like your writing is getting worse. I need to know if I’m the only one who’s struggling with these thoughts

I'm fascinated by how the formatting of different social media sites affect how text is read.

For instance, a line break on Tumblr indicates a new idea.

guys I found a photo of the eclipse from the bass pro shop pyramid

just found the most fascinating anti-ai person who is only anti-ai because they make and sell the software that spambots USED to use to flood the internet with low quality SEO-bait garbage and chatgpt is putting them out of business. what a fascinating category of human to be. i had never even considered that someone had to be actually making the spambots and that they have feelings too.

That post about 30 year old coming of age stories?

I’ve been thinking about it all morning. What would the plot points be for that? What makes a 30 year old coming of age story?

Old folks sound off in the comments

I had little trouble reading this. I sometimes hate this language.

I've slowly been chipping away at drawing scenes from that imaginary Muppet retelling of the Princess Bride, figured it was about time to share what I've drawn on Tumblr!

Future cultures having no idea what we mean when we talk about "stuffed animals" and future historians having to constantly shoot down the popular understanding with "no, they did not constantly slaughter wild and domestic animals just so they could carry their stuffed skins around as playthings. no that's not a thing - no they were literally just toys. yes just like the ones you grew up with"

Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy just got Reddit!

Darcy in his letter being like, "I suppose if you say so, your sister might have actually loved Bingley. I'm not sure though, it seems unlikely. I did look very hard at her for like, whole minutes at the ball. But whatever, it's already done and I still think I was right. Because your family sucks."

@nathanwpyle

I literally love this.

I couldn't stop laughing for 20 minutes.

No joke.

Secret bunkers full of time machine repair equipment are placed throughout history by time travelers just in case someone gets stuck in the wrong time. You are tasked with manning one of these bunkers

But from fifteen to seventeen she was in training for a heroine; she read all such works as heroines must read to supply their memories with those quotations which are so serviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives.

- Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

“Walrus on your doorstop” this “fairy’s more unrealistic” that my professor just uttered the sentence “there was one day I found a real octopus in my backyard” this man hasn’t left Utah his entire life. How was there an octopus in his backyard in Utah. He then said “I do not have time to elaborate we need to cover a lot today in class” GIRL WHAT DO YOU MEEAN

Very sad but SOMEBODY ELSE KNOWS THE OCTOPUS STORY. Don't jeopardize your grades or anything but We Need To Know!! Find one of your classmates hopefully one that can repeat a story well and find out. We will be waiting right next to our screens until you get back

“Walrus on your doorstop” this “fairy’s more unrealistic” that my professor just uttered the sentence “there was one day I found a real octopus in my backyard” this man hasn’t left Utah his entire life. How was there an octopus in his backyard in Utah. He then said “I do not have time to elaborate we need to cover a lot today in class” GIRL WHAT DO YOU MEEAN

I can't be trusted with time travel because all I would want to do would be go back to hang out with Jane Austen and show her all the adaptations of her novels to find out which one she likes the best

Here’s a story about changelings: 

Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. 

She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage.

Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. 

“Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. 

Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin.

“I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.”

“I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.”

“Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.”

Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine.

“We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…”

“Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.”

Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has.

“Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.”

Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project.

She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still.

“Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once.

Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.”

Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.  

They all live happily ever after.

*

Here’s another story: 

Keep reading

Love how tumblr has its own folk stories. Yeah the God of Arepo we’ve all heard the story and we all still cry about it. Yeah that one about the woman locked up for centuries finally getting free. That one about the witch who would marry anyone who could get her house key from her cat and it’s revealed she IS the cat after the narrator befriends the cat.

everything, everywhere, all at once

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