You may have noticed from the beginnings of my booklist that there is a sort of pattern emerging.  I'm one of those rare (and some may say odd) birds who relishes reading about swoons, lazy, impossibly fancy ladies lounging on the sofa all the day long and smelling salts.  I like parlour maids, evenings full of games of whist (what is that anyway?), and scenes depicting men retiring to the library for port and cigars.  I love the antiquated feel of it all.  I love the dusty images these books bring to mind and I love the slight disorientation of bringing the reading session to a close and re-emerging into the 21st century.  Though I don't wish to emulate it for my own life and house and regularly-showered body, I love reading about the lavish ornamentation and the myriad textures covering both the heavy, formal furniture and the rarely bathed, but heavily powdered bodies of the ladies adorning the dance floors during formal balls.  Jane Austin is my best friend.
 





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