Full Spectrum: Life Lessons from Elinor and Marianne

I never intended to read Sense and Sensibility. In fact, after Pride and Prejudice went right over my head at 14, I never expected to hold another of Jane Austen’s novels in my hands.

Then, a few months into 2020, I saw the Emma remake, and I thought, I must be old enough to appreciate these books now… right?

So, I contacted an Instagram friend who specializes in Austen and asked for a recommendation. And sure enough, after downloading Emma, I could hardly put my Kindle away.

From there, I read both Persuasion and Northanger Abbey. I needed the sweetness of the former, the humor of the latter. But I still wasn’t going to read Sense and Sensibility. I had heard next to nothing about it and figured that was all I needed to know.

With that in mind, I ran a poll on Instagram. Should I reread Pride and Prejudice as an adult? Or should I read Sense and Sensibility—totally blind? I knew what the answer would be, of course; Pride and Prejudice is revered. Surely, everyone would suggest a reread.

So you can imagine my surprise when I received vote after vote for Sense and Sensibility. When I announced the results of the poll, I knew this had to be divinely orchestrated.

Okay. Here we go.

A Tale of Two Sisters

If I’m in my analytical mind, I resonate with Elinor Dashwood. If I’m in my romantic mind, I can empathize with Marianne. (But if I’m honest, I’m probably an equal mixture of both—sense and sensibility.)

At first glance, one might label Elinor as the “boring” sister. She is grounded, reasonable, and prone to rescuing her mother and sister from indecorous situations. When someone she loves is struggling, she is the first to put her own desires aside to ease their pain. Elinor does the “right” thing, usually with pure intentions and a clear conscience.

Marianne, for her part, steers from the helm of her heart. She is flighty, whimsical, and reckless, laughing in the face of impropriety and embarrassing herself and her family at every turn. But she notices nothing but her own happiness in love, her freedom in romantic thought. She is selfish, yes, but she knows what she wants, and—unlike Elinor—she isn’t afraid to talk about it.

I certainly expected, with three of Austen’s novels already on my shelf, to see Elinor fall pleasantly in love while Marianne tripped gleefully around London, breaking hearts and taking names.

Marianne slowly dying of heartsickness at Mrs. Jennings’s house?

Ugh. No one warned me I would end up crying.

Thinking vs. Feeling

Throughout Scorpio Season, one of my most challenging intentions has been to stop overthinking. It is deeply important to me that I get this lesson integrated because, though I’ve spent many a sleepless hour in a thought spiral… I don’t actually make decisions with my head.

I make them with my gut.

This is a valuable distinction because it allows me to spend my time more wisely. I know, deep down (you know—in my gut), that no matter how logical a choice may seem, if it feels wrong, I will wait for further guidance. And while I might receive input from others, ultimately, that guidance has to come from within.

I like that both of these processes—thinking and feeling—are displayed separately in Elinor and Marianne. Through each of them, I was able to meet myself on a deeper level. The ceaseless beauty of fiction.

And I think this is probably the case with most people. We are all represented here. We think and think and think, and eventually, we must face the feelings associated with our thoughts. Sense and sensibility. The boring, grounded sister and the romantic, whimsical one.

Elinor going head-to-head with her bottled-up feelings. Marianne facing her want of rational thought.

Guard This With Your Life

For the Dashwood sisters, it’s clear that the best way to hold everything together is to keep quiet about what matters most. A sentiment I understand as an introvert and an empath.

Marianne is silent about the nature of her relationship with Willoughby for so long that all her friends and family members become certain of their engagement. They are beautiful, charming, playing duets on the piano without a care in the world. And then—disaster.

Willoughby is to marry for money, not love. And no matter how pretty, how funny, how ambitious Marianne may be—she is not enough for him. Their love affair has been a game, and now, it is over.

So she gathers up her letters and shows them to Elinor and the truth becomes clear: Marianne was never engaged to Willoughby. Only hopeful. She has held the matter close to her heart, closer than anything—and she still couldn’t control him.

With her secret out and Willoughby lost to her, Marianne becomes ill. Far from home, her mother, and the comforts of solitude, she grows increasingly weak. Which is lucky for selfless Elinor, who is trying not to think of her own heartache.

Ah, Lucy Steele. She has been engaged to Elinor’s love for years. Why didn’t Edward say anything? Why lead Elinor on?

No matter. She’ll just take care of Marianne until it stops hurting! Maybe if she doesn’t talk about it, this will all go away.

I appreciated both of these plotlines for different reasons, but first and foremost, they reminded me of a vital characteristic of human nature: We are relational beings. We are designed to be in community with others. And sometimes, such an environment asks us to let down our guards.

Full Spectrum

I love how Marianne’s heart heals after so many weeks of tears and illness. I love how loud her emotions are and how her healing becomes a kind of community project. I love that she marries kind, quiet Colonel Brandon.

But my favorite part of the book is when Elinor discovers that Edward is single after believing him to be married—and she runs out of the room to burst into tears. Finally, after so many scenes of caring for her sister, Elinor is able to release all her worries, all her sadness, and all her joy.

And can we stop pretending that we don’t experience these sorts of outbursts? There is nothing shameful or wrong about possessing the full spectrum of human emotions. How crazy—how wonderful—is it that everything can change for us in a matter of hours? One minute, the shy, quiet, adorably awkward love interest is totally out of reach, and just a few pages later, he’s engaged to the protagonist you’ve been rooting for all along.

Next time you’re feeling all the things, think of Elinor and Marianne. Full spectrum since 1811. And I’ll try to do the same. As Matt Kahn would say, “Whatever arises, love that.”