Those of you who know me pretty well know that I am an inveterate Jane Austen fan. I can recite whole swathes of the books, I'm a complete pain the backside to see a film adaptation with (unless you've got the 1995 BBC Pride & Prejudice miniseries on DVD or the 1999 Mansfield Park with Frances O'Connor), and I am a horrendous pedant when writing about her work. I wince to call the woman "Austen." She should be Miss Jane Austen, and never just Miss Austen, as her older sister Cassandra never married, and thus never relinquished the title. I have read sequels. Some are all right, some are horrendous; Mansfield Park sequels seem to go better than Pride and Prejudice or Emma sequels for some reason. Perhaps it's because everything in those two books wrapped up just so perfectly. There are no loose ends for a sequel to attach itself to. That being said, I am currently about a third of the way through P. D. James's Death Comes to Pemberly . I'm fi...
The back of the house is where theater's black magic happens. It's a place where empires rise and fall, where people love and hate, and the place where gods live and die. And yet, like the man in the movie said, it all turns out all right in the end. It's a mystery. Which is another word for miracle.