Do you ever leave current romantic comedies thinking of how funny When Harry Met Sally or Flirting with Disaster were? That’s how I feel about Pride and Prejudice and Emma almost every time I read a modern romantic comedy.
Remember how good Jane Austen was?
Remember the witty comebacks? And the unforgettable minor characters? And the subplots that made you think for a minute that the author had lost track, but that only served to show the author’s genius? And the subtext of social commentary? And the confusion, and the anxiety, and the joy?
Pride and Prejudice can’t be overdone. I’ve seen a couple movie versions of it, and they’re all great. How can they not be, with material like that to work with? And Emma…
I wish I’d read more of Austen, although the pessimistic part of me is glad to stop where I did for fear of becoming disillusioned.
For the same reason, I’ve avoided biographies of the author, even to the point of skipping over paragraphs about her in anthologies of biographies of authors.
Jane Austen may have been a miserable spinster whose ever word was motivated by spite, whose every relationship was soured by contempt, and I don’t want to care: She saw something great.
