I have no faith in sententious morals which aggrandise suffering and gestures whilst sneering at the general soft prettiness of life, its sunny cheerfulness. I don't deny hardships exist and unbearable misery but no healthy spirit could determinedly turn towards them when the simpler things are there like little fresh flowers that grow almost like weeds.

This is a reactionary post from reading victorian novels. I wonder how the authors/authoresses could fool themselves into thinking they were writing real life down. Did they proselytise morning and night. Or did they snap, gossip, giggle, flirt, burp and nap too

N.B. I make exceptions for Wuthering Heights and very little else.