Astute sensibility may be largely inaccessible to others’ reputed “good sense.” So, Jane Austin’s distinction can lead into profound intuitions, thanks to conceptual resourcefulness beyond her own era’s options.
But this long posting isn’t about Ms. Austin’s novel. Generally speaking, though, I love to explore differences between transpersonal Sensibility and normative sense applied to literary thinking—and that difference is integral to Literature:
[S] authentic being of oneself (and being appreciated as oneSelf) irt [s] what one is “supposed” to be or do.
After all—and very obviously—exploring gender and class is integral to
the evolution of Literature!—to say the least.
Given my intrapsychal differentiation of the [inter]personal mode of one’s life; given differential Selfality of multi-modally being in one’s Time (yet never wholly being of It, let alone wholly being of specific interpersonal life); and given Janus-faced selfidentity belonging with both—then (to my mind), the proximal difference between sensibility and sense is ‘like” S/s-oriented being and s/p-differentiated (dramactional) being (which I want to understand in a generatively cohering way).
[That paragraph is “impossible,” right? So, I can’t practically assume much in writing online without presuming that I’m writing for myself and sharing that. I can link to what I’ve done, but sensibly doubt that a reader cares much. Fine. I share. You go along as you prefer. Prefer not? Fine; I’ll share anyway. But imagine that what I link to was itself an excursion in translation from Work of years past that remains in my own idiom, but for the sake of further work. I’m not a hermeticist.]A lot of literary art can be fruitfully read relative to challenges of such a 3-fold difference (S/s/p-differential) in proximally 2-fold life: private irt public, self irt others’ images, aspiring Selfality irt given self understanding; or aspiring selformativity growing to sustain a 3-fold balance of being in the world, yet not primordially of it—yet of It, indeed.
So, relative to gendered life, desire for authentic wholliness draws us into gendered dramas—play, conflict, interplay—as (I would prospect) the archetropal appeal of gynandrous being that transcends others’ perception, by desiring to find one’s essential complement—or else to become that within oneself (a post-Jungian desire, I think).
Some silly “man” desires that she be—that ”we” are—high philological complements in fully mutual and wholly shared venturing of artistic life.
“I find you merely here? So what? There you are.”
And Literature reports the ways of disclosure and confounding: Is transgression of convention intimate renewal; or is that displaced longing?
Is an elation of exploring originative or compensatory?
“We would be ‘scandalous’, if known.”
“But their norms are relativized by us too well. They who can’t understand us acceptably—”
“—let alone enjoyably—”
“—are never to know how we’re masters of unpretentious poise through dramactional plays—”
“—that others regard as no play at all, just an ordinary day, comfortable presence.”
“And so, their presence evinces our own challenges.”
“They never know anyway.”
“And they can’t help.”
“We welcome challenges with promise.”
“I love that you’re so inspiring—unwittingly—”
“But not unwillingly. I love that you smirk when you’re verbose—
“I love that you laugh when you say that. Or that we’re apparently humorless
in others’ presence.”
What’s the “nature” of “need” (overriding desire) to do art?—such that Selfality prevails over s/p-differentiated life, and one departs a way of life?
How is being a sea of mystery more appealing than family life? “I love children. That doesn’t require that I ‘have’ them.”
Why do some wayfarers love to wander in serene solitude?—and return too late.
Artistic pathmaking may be essentially perverse to practical life, not especially erotic, rather exhiharating, inspired, elated, yet erotic, too.
The full compass of pleasures may be drawn to a promise of wholly comprehending—no matter that the venture discloses more far horizon—Yes!: Give me numinously nebulous enthrall!—nameless and self-renewing.