Jane Austen's Writing Desk.

There is a room in the British Library called the “Treasures exhibit.” Each section boasts its small wonders, and simply placed between Jane Eyre and Kubla Khan sits a plain, wooden writing desk.  

It isn’t much to look at—just a dark, nondescript wooden border surrounding a simple, angled surface. Even the brass of the hinges, lock, and tiny inkpot glint only dully through the glass. It is a literary relic, just a piece of furniture that Jane Austen used. But I stared at that desk, awash in waves of emotion, pulling meaning from the woodgrain.   

Though separated by 200 years and a thick sheet of glass, I felt the love and support of her father; a father much like mine, who gave her that desk and encouraged her writing ambitions in a time when so few would have. I saw the shadow of Cassandra, sketching figures for Jane’s stories and supporting her like only a true sister can, the way my sister does. 

I stood in awe, remembering each timeless classic that had been etched out upon that wooden slat, unable to fully express what those novels have meant to me. I constantly encounter her characters, as my cousin lives like Lydia and my little sister mimics Mary. I have sometimes dodged a Colins or befriended a Mr. Bingley. Jane’s witty scenes help me humor my Mrs. Bennet and weather John Middleton’s well-meaning blows. But what’s more, I have framed my own pain in the plots of her precious novels.  

I have suffered an Elinor’s anguish from a silent, distant Edward; And I know the blow of a “badly done, Emma,” given by a long-term friend. And I felt all of Lizzie’s bitterness when I saw my Charlotte settle. But living through these moments was bearable, because an Austen heroine had paved my way before.  

 And so I stood—enveloped in a timeless moment at the summit of emotion. And I stared, with increasingly watery eyes, at something that was just a desk, but symbolized a life and a work that was deeply connected to my own. My final surging feeling was of gratitude to Jane, for what she’d given me: a life enriched by stories, her wisdom and her wit, and a borrowed understanding of human characteristics and behavior.  

The moment passed—all moments do. But the memory of it still surges vibrantly in my soul’s center.