Read Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict for Free Online

have never even imagined: green and red panels in rectangular shapes; whimsical paintings of flowers and animals; enormous, looping letters that are sculpted of what appears to be glass; and giant mosaic tiles. It is as if a child had reign over this city and, laughing all the time, created whatever it wished for its inhabitants, willy-nilly, and without any regard for artistic harmony.
    And the trees! Immensely tall, stalklike things with bark marked by geometric zigzags and topped by a mop of giant spiky leaves.
    I can hardly begin to marvel over these trees when we pass colossal structures, rectangular metal armatures on four legs which are connected to one another with giant cords. I cannot imagine the purpose of such behemoths.
    Is this what the world looks like in 2009?
    I feel eyes upon me and realize that I have spoken the words aloud. Paula glances at me through the mirror, her brow furrowed. Anna glances at Wes; they both look at me and nod.
    I cannot bear the pity on their countenances. I close my eyes and let the wind wash over me. Either I am dead—or mad—or somehow I am in a future time, as someone else.
    Could this be what the Society of Asiatic Studies meant in their essay on the Hindu belief in the transmigration of souls? But that, if I understood rightly, was a transfer of the soul of the deceased into a newly born babe. Yet here I am, another adult person.
    If my soul has transmigrated, then everyone I know must be long dead—dear sweet Papa, shall I never see you again? If it is indeed 2009, then my dearest Mary, I shall never look upon your sweet countenance again, nor that of your brother—at this moment I cannot feel the slightest bit of resentment towards Charles Edgeworth, for he must be at least a century and a half in his grave. Dear Mama, I was never to you what my sister and brother were, yet you were the only mother I knew. And you, too, are dead. Hot tears gather behind my eyelids. And Barnes—dear sweet faithful Barnes—who will mourn you now but I?
    Wes’s hand patting my arm rouses me; his gray-blue eyes are gentle. Anna leans over her seat to wipe away my tears with something softer than the finest linen.
    “We’re almost there,” Paula says.
    I may be insane, I may be dead, I may have a transmigrated soul, but I shall be mistress of myself. I force a smile to prove it to my traveling companions, and their countenances show what appears to be relief.
    Paula’s car turns off the endless, inconceivably wide expanse of road onto a smaller, slower road, and then we are before an astonishingly tall and massive building with hundreds of windows.
    We come to a stop and disembark onto a vast coach-yard filled with stationary cars. “I feel better already,” says Paula, and points in the direction we are to walk.
    Suddenly I am seized with laughter, which simply bubbles out of me and shakes my frame until I am nearly bent over with it.
    Wes, Paula, and Anna’s countenances are anything but mirthful. “Oh, no,” says Anna, a fretful tone in her voice.
    “Are you all right?” Wes says.
    The laughter subsides into unladylike snorts and giggles, and finally I manage, “Oh, yes. Like Paula, I feel better already. Who would not feel better after racing a thousand cars to a destination where a thousand cars stand still? Who would not feel better after learning that everyone she knows has been dead for at least a hundred and fifty years?”
    I look around me at the field of cars, the building looming with its glittering windows. “If they are dead, then so must I be.”
    “Do you really feel dead?” says Anna, her eyes full of concern. “Because you’re not. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. I know it doesn’t feel that way right now, but it will. I promise you.”
    “I—” But I cannot finish the thought, for a pair of white butterflies are suddenly dancing in the air between Anna and me. And, as suddenly, they flutter away and are replaced by a lone