:: on victorian prose ::

there is a certain exquisiteness in reading victorian prose.
it sweeps you up into all that old british accent that suddenly elevates you onto their social standing, the experience not unlike shutting yourself in a capsule and being transmitted back in time. your mind conjures up the poignant image of a Queen Victoria with many of her counterparts and contemporaries, full of royal countenance and most exquisite etiquette. gingerly raising china to their rosebud mouths with their white-satin-gloved hands, and "talking in a most extraordinary manner", raising eyebrows at prompt societal cues, murmuring "indeed?" with all due politeness that is deemed becoming of a lady or a gentleman. any wayward behaviour frowned upon by ladies with "proper" upbringing, and making childhood an absolute torture -- would a child be made to control her every action and manner and not being able to jump around in all gaiety or roll around in mud in spring; girls always having to wear flourished bonnets and crowns and not allowed to be inquisitive; and boys always pressured and groomed to be accomplished -- a pawn for their parents' follies.

it is quite fun to be whirled into such a world every now and then.
actually it is quite fun to be whirled into any world the book in your hands brings you. :)