Pride and Prejudice

Being male, its very difficult to read Pride and Prejudice in public. People stare at you. They snigger, they sneer, they look down their noses. Why would I, a man, read a book by Jane Austin? I wasn’t sure why myself, but I paid money for it so it seemed like the decent thing to do. I set about reading the book with as much secrecy as possible on public transport. I hid the cover into the back of the person in front of me on the tube, with the pages folded sharply upwards to stop anyone sneaking a preview of what so many people seemed to find so horrifically confusing.

A lot of female people that I know discovered I was undertaking this most shocking of endeavours, and were horrified that I would refer to Pride and Prejudice as chick-lit. Of course, all of these ladies had actually read the book. Now I have too, I can see their point. The book is a satire on society - the romance story is there as relief from the idiocy of many of the characters surrounding Bennet and Darcy. Your growing suspicions are indeed correct - I really enjoyed this book.

Elizabeth’s mother is fricking hilarious. She storms through every scene, tearing up the pages with her wild inconsistencies, governed only by her emotions and ill defined opinions. Her father is equally amusing. He takes great pride in caring for his daughters, usually at the expense of his wife.

The main characters are fantastic because they are flawed. Elizabeth Bennet is refreshing (even 200 years on) because she holds on to her principles throughout the novel. When she falls in love, it’s for much deeper reasons than a happy ending. She grows in character as the story progresses, learning the importance of holding back from assumptions and speculation until in full possession of facts. Darcy is well suited as the romantic interest, but is held back from her interest for most of the book by a distinct lack of tact.

So why did I think of it as chick-lit? Well, as with many classics, it’s influence has led to many shockingly poor novelists attempting to re-create its magic (I’m looking at you Celia Ahern). It’s a bit like Nirvana drowning in a Puddle of Mudd, or the Libertines wearing the same jeans for 4 days. It’s guilt by association. As a result, I think I’m the first man I know to actually read this book (please correct me if I’m wrong?). I’m very glad to have read some Jane Austin, I suspect many men never will.