As for the greetings--you started it. You have a very interesting hand, by the way. Not what I would have expected, but no less impressive than my own that I use for note-taking, which is absolutely horrific, and practically the angular definition of chicken scratch.
I don't recall 'quotidian' getting me any play, but Philosophy 101, name-dropping, and dandyism certainly did. Whether or not I understood what I was repeating had absolutely nothing to do with it--it worked. I don't say it to impress you (far from it), but I look upon that particular version of myself with a sort of fond hilarity. I did enjoy my own idiocy in those days, even if I had the vocabulary to hide it.
I'm improved, since I can make myself a goddamn cup of coffee, which is the absolute highlight of my life right now. Hospitals have absolutely no concept of a good cup of coffee. Even British tea houses serve coffee. Why American hospitals can't cater to that particular social addiction when they're so damned set on getting rid of the rest, I don't know.
Now, Anne. You said, I believe, that Anne deserved Wentworth's love, somewhere, if I'm not mistaken. I naturally followed that assumption to assume that you approved of his distant life-endangering pining, too. I don't think that Anne would suit the work of a spinster copy editor, I think she would find it too challenging for her--but I also don't think Wentworth found her the same Anne when he returned, and when he falls for her a second time, I don't think it is the same love they had before. They are not the same people. Whether or not they deserve it is beside the point entirely.
Do I believe that women love longer than men? No, I don't. Nor do I have a colorful explanation for the opinion, it is just mine, and I've given it. I think there are certain people suited for love, like your Anne, who I think possessed enough character to deserve it by the end of the book, idealistic as it is. There are still more who don't deserve love, and those are the kind of people, my dear Claire, that you are better off avoiding.
As for Romance: I am a fan of Yeats, which tells you much, I imagine. Sex is not love, and love is not sex, and you can have one without the other, though it's not as much as either could be together. Part of the appeal of young love is that line which blurs when sex is embodied in that single apple of your eye. When we grow older, and lovers instead of lines blur together, that passion is gone.
There, I told you I was a cynic.
I am trying to decide on a book. When I do, I'll send it along, and yours back to you.
P.S. Too kind.
P.P.S. That depends entirely on what kind of things you're trying to find out.
P.P.P.S. I doubt anyone as observant as Miss Austen would regret such a decision. Was your last question a barb?