Nothing like Victorian literature to thouroughly kill that high-on-life buzz....

...or so I once thought. But now... now I am not so sure.

One thing I am sure of is that Kate Chopin just jumped up into my top ten authors list. I finished The Awakening this evening, and though the ending was admittedly depressing it was none the less satisfying. I am not going to say anymore on the subject as I will undoubtedly spoil it all for anyone who endeavors to read this gratifying novel.

There is a section of the novel that stood out:

"If I were young and in love with a man," said Mademoiselle, turning on the stool and pressing her wiry hands between her knees as she looked down at Edna, who sat on the floor holding the letter, "it seems to me he would have to be some grand espirit; a man with lofty aims and ability to reach them; one who stood high enough to attract the notice of his fellow-men. It seems to me if I were young and in love I should never deem a man of ordinary caliber worthy of my devotion."

And Edna goes on to say that one does not choose whom one falls in love with. As I said before, this caught my attention. For what reason, I cannot precisely place my finger upon. I can only say that it led me to seriously question a great deal about my romantic endeavors thus far.

It is not prestige that makes literature great or spectacular. It is the enduring loyalty to the human condition that makes Shakespeare, Dante, Austen and yes, Chopin, beautiful and relevant. Not just for days and months and a handful of years, but for centuries.