Urgh. This novel. Emma is insufferable. The only thing that carried me to the end was the inevitability that she was going to top herself and put and end to all the chest beating and fainting and the rest of the crap. Oh the relief. It's not the immorality (because in this day and age, ha.) It's not even the self-obession, or the self-centredness, though that's all annoying. It's the complete incapability to live in reality.

In an academic sense, I get it. This is what becomes of reading Romance Novels. And she's a woman, in a man's world. And the whole novel spends all its time painting Charles as this miserable, stupid, provincial man, when in actual fact he was a complete Saint and she didn't deserve him one bit.