Miss Marple: Love: Gen
Feb. 13th, 2019 10:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stonepicnicking_okapi posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
picture_prompt_funTitle: Love
Fandom: Miss Marple [Agatha Christie book 'verse]
Length: 500
Rating: Gen
Notes: Takes place just after the short story "Strange Jest."
Summary: Miss Marple reflects on love.
Challenge: 52 - Pictures 103 & 104.
From the terrace, Miss Marple gazed fondly at the two young people, who were now off in the distance beside a garden bench. They really did make such a nice-looking couple. Charmain had thrown her arms around Edward and they now were kissing ardently just as the sun was going down behind them.
Miss Marple sighed. What a lovely picture they made! She was very glad she had been able to help the two find their great Uncle’s Matthew’s fortune. They would now be able to marry and start their lives together free from the most notorious of newlywed anxieties: lack of money.
And they were so in love.
Ah, young romantic love, thought Miss Marple. One of the many kinds of love, but nevertheless, not without its charms. Could Miss Marple remember what it felt like, to be in love like that? If she tried very hard to remember, she supposed she could, but what was the real use of that? Better to celebrate it alive and vibrant, there, with Charmain and Edward, than to waste precious energy dusting tiresome cobwebs off a long ago memory.
Of course, love was not just something written in the sand as sweethearts walked hand-and-hand along the beach. There were many kinds of love. There was family love and friendship and love of an abstract, like duty, love of country, of nature. There was love of God, too. There were also things that people called love but were not love at all: the urge to control, the urge to keep, the urge to kill when the object of one’s love didn’t behave in the way desired. Love didn’t strangle. Or poison. There was a lot of foolishness and madness and wickedness in the world and sometimes they were called ‘love.’ But Miss Marple knew the difference.
Miss Marple loved her family, dear Raymond and all the other nieces and nephews and godchildren. She loved her neighbours and friends, those in Saint Mary Mead and those scattered around the world. But she had to admit that she had a special place in her heart for those who brought her puzzles, like Sir Henry Clithering or Doctor Haydock. Yes, those people were special because there was a singular thrill which struck Miss Marple when she happened upon a solution, as it had with this affair of the hidden fortune of Charmain and Edward’s late Uncle Matthew. And if Miss Marple were honest with herself, and, really, why on earth at this age should she not be honest with herself, that thrill was a strong and as intoxicating as falling in love. And, unlike falling in love, it was still there, very much alive in Miss Marple’s heart and mind. It had not faded, not in all of Miss Marple’s years, not with all the problems that had been laid before her; as Shakespeare had once said, age didn’t wither it, not custom stale its infinite variety.
Puzzles were, Miss Marple reflected, her one true love.
Fandom: Miss Marple [Agatha Christie book 'verse]
Length: 500
Rating: Gen
Notes: Takes place just after the short story "Strange Jest."
Summary: Miss Marple reflects on love.
Challenge: 52 - Pictures 103 & 104.
From the terrace, Miss Marple gazed fondly at the two young people, who were now off in the distance beside a garden bench. They really did make such a nice-looking couple. Charmain had thrown her arms around Edward and they now were kissing ardently just as the sun was going down behind them.
Miss Marple sighed. What a lovely picture they made! She was very glad she had been able to help the two find their great Uncle’s Matthew’s fortune. They would now be able to marry and start their lives together free from the most notorious of newlywed anxieties: lack of money.
And they were so in love.
Ah, young romantic love, thought Miss Marple. One of the many kinds of love, but nevertheless, not without its charms. Could Miss Marple remember what it felt like, to be in love like that? If she tried very hard to remember, she supposed she could, but what was the real use of that? Better to celebrate it alive and vibrant, there, with Charmain and Edward, than to waste precious energy dusting tiresome cobwebs off a long ago memory.
Of course, love was not just something written in the sand as sweethearts walked hand-and-hand along the beach. There were many kinds of love. There was family love and friendship and love of an abstract, like duty, love of country, of nature. There was love of God, too. There were also things that people called love but were not love at all: the urge to control, the urge to keep, the urge to kill when the object of one’s love didn’t behave in the way desired. Love didn’t strangle. Or poison. There was a lot of foolishness and madness and wickedness in the world and sometimes they were called ‘love.’ But Miss Marple knew the difference.
Miss Marple loved her family, dear Raymond and all the other nieces and nephews and godchildren. She loved her neighbours and friends, those in Saint Mary Mead and those scattered around the world. But she had to admit that she had a special place in her heart for those who brought her puzzles, like Sir Henry Clithering or Doctor Haydock. Yes, those people were special because there was a singular thrill which struck Miss Marple when she happened upon a solution, as it had with this affair of the hidden fortune of Charmain and Edward’s late Uncle Matthew. And if Miss Marple were honest with herself, and, really, why on earth at this age should she not be honest with herself, that thrill was a strong and as intoxicating as falling in love. And, unlike falling in love, it was still there, very much alive in Miss Marple’s heart and mind. It had not faded, not in all of Miss Marple’s years, not with all the problems that had been laid before her; as Shakespeare had once said, age didn’t wither it, not custom stale its infinite variety.
Puzzles were, Miss Marple reflected, her one true love.
no subject
Date: 2019-02-14 05:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-02-14 05:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-02-14 09:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-02-14 10:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-02-15 06:28 pm (UTC)Some particularly favourite lines:
Better to celebrate it alive and vibrant, there, with Charmain and Edward, than to waste precious energy dusting tiresome cobwebs off a long ago memory.
There were also things that people called love but were not love at all: the urge to control, the urge to keep, the urge to kill when the object of one’s love didn’t behave in the way desired. Love didn’t strangle. Or poison. There was a lot of foolishness and madness and wickedness in the world and sometimes they were called ‘love.’ But Miss Marple knew the difference.
And if Miss Marple were honest with herself, and, really, why on earth at this age should she not be honest with herself, that thrill was a strong and as intoxicating as falling in love. And, unlike falling in love, it was still there, very much alive in Miss Marple’s heart and mind. It had not faded, not in all of Miss Marple’s years, not with all the problems that had been laid before her; as Shakespeare had once said, age didn’t wither it, not custom stale its infinite variety.
no subject
Date: 2019-02-15 07:24 pm (UTC)