Category: Maja Writes… signals from an intern with nothing better to do.

The Private Diary of Maja Jović

Subject: Re: Literary Observances (Further Thoughts)

From: Julian Pilkington-Sterne
To: Maja Jović

My dear Miss Jović,

I have reflected carefully upon your last message, and while I accept, readily and without reservation, your superior command of literary classification, I find myself compelled to make a modest defence. You suggest Persuasion as the ideal expression of feeling restrained, postponed, and dignified by patience. I admire this greatly. Truly.

Yet I cannot help but wonder whether such restraint, however elegant, risks becoming a kind of emotional abdication. The Brontës, Emily in particular, understood something rather different: that passion, once felt, does not always submit to civility; that it may rage, misunderstand, and wound before it ever redeems. It is untidy. It is excessive. But it is honest.

I hope you will forgive me if I confess that I find such honesty… compelling.

Yours,
Julian Pilkington-Sterne

Re: Literary Observances (Further Thoughts)

From: Maja Jović
To: Julian Pilkington-Sterne

Mr Pilkington-Sterne,

I appreciate your candour, though I must gently resist the implication that emotional restraint is a failure of courage. Austen does not deny feeling; she disciplines it. She recognises that unchecked passion may be sincere, yes—but sincerity alone does not render it wise, nor kind. Emily Brontë’s characters burn brightly, but they also leave devastation in their wake. One might admire the flame while still declining to place one’s hand in it. You speak of honesty as though it were synonymous with intensity. I would argue that true honesty often lies in knowing when not to speak.

Respectfully,
M. Jović

Re: Literary Observances (A Clarification)

From: Julian Pilkington-Sterne
To: Maja Jović

Miss Jović,

I fear we are no longer speaking solely of books. You are right: the Brontës scorch the earth. But Austen’s world, however refined, depends upon silence so carefully maintained that one wonders how many truths perish quietly in its keeping. Is it always virtuous to wait? Or does waiting sometimes become a means of self-protection masquerading as principle? I ask this not as a provocateur, but as someone who has often erred on the side of saying too much, too soon—yet who wonders whether that failing is preferable to never speaking at all.

Forgive my frankness.
I assure you it is not lightly offered.

J.P-S

Re: Literary Observances (And Their Limits)

From: Maja Jović
To: Julian Pilkington-Sterne

Mr Pilkington-Sterne,

You are correct. We are no longer speaking solely of books. You admire the Brontës because their characters announce themselves without apology. I admire Austen because her characters understand the cost of doing so. It is easy to mistake urgency for truth, and volume for depth. What you describe as silence, I would call discernment. Not every feeling demands an audience. Not every impulse improves by being aired. And yet (you see how easily one concedes ground when conversation strays from novels) there are moments when restraint becomes its own kind of fear. I suspect we differ not in what we feel, but in how safe we believe it is to reveal it.

Yours,
Maja

Re: Literary Observances (One Last Thought)

From: Julian Pilkington-Sterne
To: Maja Jović

Maja,

If that is so, if our difference lies not in feeling, but in courage, then I find myself wondering whether the question is not Austen or Brontë, but rather:

Who is brave enough to speak first, and who must decide whether they wish to listen?

I will say no more on the matter, lest I prove your point by excess.

But I hope you will not think less of me for preferring a storm to a calm whose price is silence.

With sincerity,
Julian

(Maja begins to type a reply. She stops. Deletes it. Starts again.)

(She does not send anything that night.)

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Julian writes: A Modest Proposal for a Festive Literary Observance

From: Julian Pilkington-Sterne
To: Maja Jović

My dear Miss Jović,

I trust this message finds you in good health and untroubled spirits, notwithstanding the recent disturbances of a technological and celebratory nature, for which I continue to reflect with appropriate humility.

In light of Jane Austen’s anniversary this week, it occurred to me—quite suddenly, and with a warmth of conviction I could not ignore—that our forthcoming Christmas gathering might be enriched by a brief homage to her enduring genius.

Specifically, I wondered whether we might honour her most emotionally tempestuous work, Withering Heights, whose examination of passion, restraint, and unspoken feeling seems—if I may be bold—particularly suited to the present season, and perhaps, to certain circumstances within our office.

I envision nothing ostentatious.
Merely a reading.
A mood.
Possibly a candle.

I should very much value your opinion on this matter, as I know your judgement to be both discerning and, when necessary, corrective.

Yours sincerely,
Julian Pilkington-Sterne

Re: A Modest Proposal for a Festive Literary Observance

From: Maja Jović
To: Julian Pilkington-Sterne

Dear Mr Pilkington-Sterne,

I am grateful for your thoughtful message and for the evident care with which it has been composed.

It is indeed true that Jane Austen’s anniversary presents a most fitting occasion for reflection, particularly in a workplace where misunderstandings, suppressed feeling, and unnecessary dramatics are not entirely unknown.

However, I must gently observe—with all due respect and no desire to wound—that Withering Heights is not, in fact, a work of Jane Austen.

This is not a matter of interpretation, but of authorship.

That said, I do not doubt that your intention was sincere, nor that you are drawn, quite understandably, to stories of brooding emotion and unresolved attachment.

Should you wish to celebrate Austen, I would suggest Persuasion, whose quiet intensity and emphasis on what is felt but not spoken might offer a more… accurate reflection of her sensibility.

As for candles, I advise caution.

Yours faithfully,
Maja Jović

Re: Re: A Modest Proposal for a Festive Literary Observance

From: Julian Pilkington-Sterne
To: Maja Jović

My dear Miss Jović,

I thank you for your correction, which I accept with the grace befitting a man who has, on more than one occasion, mistaken enthusiasm for scholarship.

You are quite right.
Withering Heights—
(Wuthering, as I now understand)—
belongs elsewhere.

Yet I cannot entirely regret the confusion, for it has prompted me to reflect upon Persuasion, which you mention with such discernment.

Is it not a novel that concerns itself deeply with what is left unsaid?
With feelings postponed, deferred, and—one hopes—not entirely lost?

I wonder whether such themes might resonate, not only as literature, but as lived experience.

I would not presume to suggest that you see matters as I do. Still, I cannot help but feel that a shared reading, however brief, might offer a moment of… mutual understanding.

If this proposal causes you the slightest discomfort, I beg you to say so at once.
Your ease is of the utmost importance to me.

Awaiting your thoughts,
with sincere regard,
Julian Pilkington-Sterne

Re: Re: Re: A Modest Proposal for a Festive Literary Observance

From: Maja Jović
To: Julian Pilkington-Sterne

Mr Pilkington-Sterne,

You are correct in your assessment of Persuasion. It is a novel that rewards patience, reflection, and the courage to recognise one’s feelings, particularly when they arrive later than expected.

I agree that its themes are appropriate, and that a short reading would not be misplaced at a Christmas gathering, provided it is undertaken with restraint and without excessive interpretation.

As to whether such a reading might offer mutual understanding, that is a more delicate question.

Some things, Mr Pilkington-Sterne, are best left to be discovered gradually, rather than declared with enthusiasm or accompanied by candles.

Still, I will consider your suggestion.

I trust you will understand if my reply is not immediate.

Yours,
M. Jović

(No further reply is received that evening.)

Maja writes: he’s behind you…

Jealousy.

There. I wrote it. It looks pathetic in ink.

It wasn’t even that she was impressive – she was, of course – it was the way Julian seemed to grow into someone else around her. Someone more articulate, more intentional, someone who managed to keep his shirt tucked in for a full twenty minutes. A version of him I didn’t realise I minded missing until it appeared.

At one point she laughed – really laughed – at something he said. Not out of politeness. Not the “yes, English humour is peculiar” diplomatic laugh. A proper laugh. He lit up like a festival lantern. And I hated it. And I hated myself for hating it. Because none of this is… anything. It’s just Julian being Julian. And me being… what? More attached than I realised? More fragile than I admit? After she left, the whole office exhaled.

Julian floated. Actually floated. Muttering things like: “She understood my joke about footnotes,” and “I think she admired our organisational ecosystem,” which is the most delusional sentence I’ve ever heard in this building, and that includes Paul’s claim that he can “feel fonts emotionally.”

I pretended to be busy. I couldn’t look at him. Not while he was glowing like that. I don’t know what any of this means. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this knotted, restless feeling in my chest. But I know one thing. If Shaila returns, I am absolutely sitting in on every meeting. Not because of Julian. Absolutely not. Just… cultural diplomacy. Professional curiosity. Normal reasons.

God, I’m a mess.

Maja writes: oh yes I do!

I was about to tell you about what happened with Shaila Rao and Julian silly double barrel name but the bosses got in the way… but I have triumphed! Read my full story below! This is where I left off…

‘Tall, composed, astonishingly alert, as if she’d already assessed the structural weaknesses of the entire building on entry. She carried herself with this calm, contained power that made the fluorescent lights look embarrassed to be near her. And from the second Julian saw her, his brain simply evaporated.

I have never watched a human transform before. One minute Julian was babbling about microphone echo on Zoom calls, the next he was practically levitating with awe, speaking in a pitch that reminded me of a woodwind instrument having a breakdown.

“Oh—hi—hello—welcome—this is Nick Owen Publishing—we make books—sometimes on purpose—tea?”

I could have throttled him with the HDMI cable.

He led her through the office like a tour guide trying to impress royalty.

“You’ll see here, this is Eleanor, she keeps us alive,”

“This is Alex, he runs the place,”

“And here is Maja—yes Maja—who is completely calm, and not at all glaring at me for absolutely no reason.”

He said that. To an international delegate. In front of me.

And cool, observant Shaila simply smiled as if she’d encountered this species of man before and had long ago decided it was not worth emotional energy. But what burned me  was watching him look at her like she was the solution to the entire publishing sector’s structural problems. Like she was brilliance made visible. Like he had forgotten, entirely, that he is normally incapable of speaking to strangers without spiralling into chaos.

I shouldn’t care. I know I shouldn’t. I am not…’

EDITOR’S NOTE: WE APOLOGISE FOR THE UNNECESSARY EMOTION IN THIS POST. WE ARE IN THE PROCESS OF DELETING IT BUT ARE STILL STRUGGLING FROM THE IMPACT OF A WEBSITE HACK OF SOME WEEKS BACK.

IF YOU REQUIRE MORE INFORMATION PLEASE SUBSCRIBE HERE.

Maja writes: OH NO SHE DOESN’T

(Private. Absolutely not for the NOP website.)

I did not expect today to unravel the way it did.

I thought we were simply “welcoming an international visitor,” which in NOP-speak usually means tidying a single table, hiding the panic kettle, and pretending we don’t hear the printer grinding its existential screams. But then she arrived.

Shaila Rao.

Tall, composed, astonishingly alert, as if she’d already assessed the structural weaknesses of the entire building on entry. She carried herself with this calm, contained power that made the fluorescent lights look embarrassed to be near her. And from the second Julian saw her…

(Want to hear more of my story? Then subscribe here before the bosses delete this post… Love from Maja xxx