Sense and Sensibility: Is Love Just Another Fairytale?

I still can't quite believe you entrusted me with the one photograph you own of your idol, Sarah Vaughan... the very anchor that keeps you going. I promise to cherish it with all my heart. Better yet, consider me its devoted custodian until we meet again. By then, I can only hope life will feel a little less hazy.

I've tried to clear my mind of Mr. Hawke's harsh words, but I can't escape their sting, especially right before I fall asleep: "The art of photography isn't about taking pretty pictures... and young lady, I suggest you hold on to your present job."

I still wonder which sentence cut deeper. I know I have much to learn, but is working as a telephone operator truly the highest peak my abilities can reach? I feel it so strongly in my heart that I am meant for greater things. Not for wealth or fame, but simply to wake up every morning and do something rich with meaning and purpose. How can plugging cables, repeating the same prescribed phrases, and having even my bathroom breaks watched by the clock be all a woman like me is expected to be content with?

But enough complaining.

Do you remember that book I mentioned in my last letter, the one Lilly, my colleague and roommate, insisted I read? It’s Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility. She swore that doctors used to prescribe Austen's novels to recovering soldiers in the First World War to boost their morale, and I am almost certain she handed it to me with that same cure in mind. I started reading with considerable skepticism, but I must confess, the soft narration and idyllic countryside gatherings worked their magic. I felt so at ease that I even brought the book to work, reading a few lines between calls and during my breaks.

Yesterday, while preparing dinner, Lilly and I nearly got into an argument over it. She insists Austen wrote two of the most romantic storylines ever created, and that we, too, might end up with our own happily ever after. I am not so sure. In fact, I’m convinced Sense and Sensibility is closer to fantasy. It’s a fairy tale, stuck entirely in the realm of imagination.

Let me explain why.

The main characters, the young Dashwood sisters - one wise, one not so wise - are constantly invited to grand parties, dinners, and weeks-long stays in London where they shop and boss around valets... without spending a single cent! Is that really 19th-century England? Here I am in 1958, in the "City of Love," and I can't even get invited out for a coffee!

Then look at the sisters themselves. The elder, Elinor, is always composed and cool as a cucumber, no matter what life throws at her. At only nineteen? Pure fiction, if you ask me. But her younger sibling, Marianne, is entirely relatable. She cries, wears her heart on her sleeve, and makes terrible choices over a handsome, dishonest man. That, at least, I can believe.

Naturally, the suitors step in right on cue to deliver the inevitable happy ending we’re all taught to hope for. And for reasons beyond my comprehension, Lilly isn't bothered in the slightest by the endless waiting; women waiting around to be noticed, acknowledged, and chosen by wealthy men.

Lilly thinks I am cynical and far too suspicious of love. Do you think I am, Billie? I suspect she only says it because she hates hearing my warnings about her boyfriend, Ben. I just can't bear the thought of her heart being broken... he is married, after all.

Write soon,

Love,

Nina

💌Next: Read Lilly's Note to Nina: The Photograph That Makes Me Feel