The most overated book in history of literature. The "plot" borders between meaningless and trivial.

I was forced to read the book in 9th grade English class. This was perhaps the most tedious school assignment I've received to date. For several pages a lady remarks to a man about what wonderful handwriting he has. Not exactly gripping material. The entire book seemed to be about hormone-driven marriageable-age creatures trying to outwit each other in word and on the dance floor.

The book itself is bad enough, but to complicate matters, women pledge allegiance not only to the book but also to the gazillion-hour movie.

I came for an enemies to lovers, 1800s Britain edition with Bridgerton vibes and got a ton of drama about people who were always outside :) I loved the drama though, just wanted a Taylor Swift love story

Okay so I dnf'ed pride & prejudice

Well-loathed books I've re-read

Rating: 4 very annoyed, crow-feathered stars out of five

The Book Report: No. Seriously. If your first language isn't English, or if you're like nine years old, you might not know the story. Note use of conditional.

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My Review: All right. All right, dammit! I re-read the bloody thing. I gave it two stars before. I was wrong-headed and obtuse and testosterone poisoned. I refuse to give it five stars, though. Look, I've admitted I was wrong about how beautiful the writing is, and how amusing the story is. Don't push.

Stephen Sullivan, who rated this with six stars of five, is now on a summer travel break from Goodreads, so I can publish this admission: He was right. It is a wonderful book. I had to grow into it, much as I had to grow into my love for Mrs. Dalloway. But now that I'm here, I am a full-on fan.

Deft is a word that seems to have been created for Austen. She writes deftly, she creates scenes deftly. She isn't, despite being prolix to a fault, at all heavy-handed or nineteenth-century-ish in her long, long, long descriptions. She is the anti-Dickens: Nothing slapdash or gimcrack or brummagem about her prose, oh nay nay nay. Words are deployed, not flung or splodged or simply wasted. The long, long, long sentences and paragraphs aren't meant to be speed-read, which is what most of us do now. They are meant to be savored, to be treated like Louis XIII cognac served in a cut-crystal snifter after a simple sole meunière served with haricots verts and a perfect ripe peach for dessert.

The romantic elements seem, at first blush, a wee tidge trite. And they are. Now. Why are they? Because, when Miss Jane first used them in Pride and Prejudice, they worked brilliantly and they continue so to do unto this good day. Why? Because these are real feelings expressed in a real, genuine, heartfelt way, as constrained by the customs of the country and times. And isn't that, in the end, what makes reading books so delicious? I, a fat mean old man with no redeeming graces, a true ignorant lower-class lout of the twenty-first century, am in full contact with the mind, the heart, the emotional core of a lady of slender means born during the reign of George III.

You tell me what, on the surface of this earth, is more astonishing, more astounding, more miraculous than that. Jane Austen and I Had A Moment. She's Had A Moment with literally millions of English-speakers for over 200 years. She's had moments with non-English speakers for more than a century. Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy are cultural furniture for a large percentage of the seven billion people on the planet. (Large here is a relative term. Less than one? Still amazing for a book 200 years old.)

Reading is traveling in time, in space, but most importantly inside. Inside yourself, inside the characters' emotions, inside the author's head and heart. It is a voyage of discovery, whether you're reading some bizarro mess, Dan Brown's mess, religious tracts, Twilight, whatever. You-the-reader are going somewhere in a more intimate contact than you-the-reader have with any other being on the planet. Movies, TV, sex, none of them take you as deep into the essence of feeling and emotion as reading does. And no, snobs, it does NOT matter if it's well written, it matters that the book speaks to the reader. (Sometimes, of course, what one learns is how very shallow and vapid some people are...I'm lookin' at you, Ms. Fifty Shades.)

So I thank that rotten, stinkin' Stephen-the-absent Sullivan, safe in the knowledge he won't see me admitting this, for reminding me to live up to my own goal of remaining open to change. I heard him yodeling his rapture, and I revisited the book, and I learned something valuable:

Only admit you're wrong when the person you don't want to embarrass yourself in front of isn't around to see.

THIS BOOK IS MY JAM. JANE AUSTEN IS MY JAM. I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT HER AND THIS BOOK. READ THIS BOOK. THAT IS ALL.

this is what other enemies to lovers books wish they were.

it is official: now everyone on the planet has read this book. i was the last holdout, and being the last person (excluding those who are just being born...... now) i am sorry i didn't like it more. i knew going into it that i was not a jane austen girl; i had read two others and thought them bloodless and mercantile. but everyone said to me, "well, you haven't read pride and prejudice is why you don't like her." which i thought might be valid. but it's not. because i still don't care. this is not the greatest love story of all time. it's more like the most amiable alliance of compatible feelings that ends up in a mutually agreeable union and merging of fortunes and temperaments. i mean, really. this book needs heathcliff to come barreling in on a stallion all wet from the moors to ravish all five of these daughters and show them what a real man is all about. now there's a love story...

come to my blog!

Jesus Christ, just have sex.

2.5

NOTE: The review you are about to read was written in 2009. 2009! That's 15 years ago! I was 17 and thought I was the smartest person ever! In all honesty, I barely remember this book. So, negative comments regarding my intelligence are no longer necessary. They will be ignored. As they have been for probably 8 years now. CARRY ON!

P.S. Can we all just LOL at my use of the words "mind-numbing balls"?? HA.

This book is quite possibly the most insipid novel I have ever read in my life. Why this book is so highly treasured by society is beyond me. It is 345 pages of nothing. The characters are like wispy shadows of something that could be interesting, the language that could be beautiful ends up becoming difficult to decipher and lead me more than once to skip over entire paragraphs because I became tired of having to stumble through them only to emerge unsatisfied, and the plot is non-existent, as though Austen one day decided she wanted to write a novel and began without having any idea what would happen except that there would be a boy and a girl who seemingly didn’t like each other but in the end got married. The story really probably could have been told in about 8 pages, but Austen makes us slog through 345 pages of mind-numbing balls and dinner-parties. I don’t care what anyone says, this is not great literature. This is a snore.

Read my review of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

I heartily enjoy period romance. Jane Austen's particular style of writing, however, leaves me a bit cold.

It's a rule that writers are supposed to write what they know. If Austen stayed true to that rule, I really feel bad for her. Because she must have known nothing but shallow, self-absorbed, slightly idiotic people.

While the sisters Bronte were capable of creating characters that even today's reader can identify with (complete with passion and realistic, heart-warming flaws), Austen's characters are devoid of any depth whatsoever. They all just seem to be flitting through life with one goal in mind; for the men, finding a woman who's easy on the eyes, and for the women, finding a man who's heavy on the bank.

Now, I'll concede that Austen was technically a good writer, but that doesn't mean her stories were interesting, engrossing, or even slightly entertaining. In fact, I found that I had to force myself to finish Pride and Prejudice, and was fueled mostly by a deep resentment and anger for having even started it in the first place. "If this is how it begins", I thought to myself, "How pissed am I going to be by the end?"

The answer? Pretty pissed.

I made the mistake of reading this book after watching the 2005 movie version starring Keira Knightley. Big mistake. While the movie was sigh-inducing with its romance, the book reads like a 19th century woman's guide to bagging a rich husband. The final scene, where Darcy finally proposes to Elizabeth, was something I was looking forward to with cautious trepidation, cautious trepidation that ended up being well-founded; two people bartering over a used car would have been more romantic.

Some years back in one of my APAs, someone castigated Jane Austen's books like this: "All those daft twits rabbiting on about clothes and boyfriends and manners."

Since then, I’ve encountered other variations on the theme that a modern woman ought not to be reading such trash because it sets feminism back two centuries.

Well, much as I laughed over the first caveat, that isn't Austen. It sounds more like the silver fork romances inspired by Georgette Heyer. Austen's characters don't talk about clothes at all, outside of air-headed Mrs Allen of Northanger Abbey, who doesn't think of anything else.

Austen sticks her satiric quill into young ladies who think and talk about nothing but beaux, such as poor, luckless Anne Steele in Sense and Sensibility. Manners are emphasized but not manners without matter; Austen saves her spikiest irony for hypocrites.

I think it's important to remember that whereas Heyer was writing historical romances in the silver fork tradition, Austen was writing novels about contemporary life, especially the problems facing young women in her own walk of life, the country gentry. She criticized herself in a much-quoted letter to her sister Cassandra, saying in effect, 'the problem with Pride and Prejudice is it's too light and bright and sparkling.' Many have misinterpreted this remark. It seems to me, on close reading of her elsewhere, that she meant the novel to be taken more seriously than it was.

What is it about, really? It's about the wrong reasons for marrying, and how those can affect a woman for the rest of her life. Of course a hard-line feminist can point out that novels about marriage are hideously retro for today's woman, who has many choices before her. During Austen's time, marriage was the only choice a woman had, unless she was rich enough to shrug off the expectations of her society, or unless she was willing to live on as a pensioner to some family member or other, which more often than not meant being used as an unpaid maid. Of course there was teaching, but the salaries for women were so miserable one may as well have been a servant. The hours and demands were pretty much equal.

If one looks past the subject of marriage, the novel's focus is about relationships: between men and women; between sisters; between friends; between family members and between families. As for marriage, Austen sends up relationships that were formed with security as the goal, relationships that were sparked by physical attraction and not much else, relationships made with an eye to rank, money, social status, or competition. And, with abundant wit and style (or as she’d say, with éclat), she offers some truths about the differences between love and lust, and what relationships based on either mean to a marriage months—or decades—after the wedding.

The fact that Austen doesn't use modern terminology doesn't make it any less real than a contemporary novel that has a supposedly liberated woman romping desperately from bed to bed for forty pages while in search of the perfect relationship. The message is the same, that women who mistake falling in lust for falling in love are usually doomed to a very unhappy existence. And in Austen's time, you couldn't divorce, you were stuck for life.

I've had dedicated feminist friends give me appalled reactions when I admit to liking Austen. I don't consider reading Austen a guilty pleasure, as I do reading Wodehouse. I consider Jane Austen a forerunner of feminism. She doesn't stand out and preach as Mary Wollstonecroft did. Her influence was nevertheless profound. Again and again in those novels she portrays women thinking for themselves, choosing for themselves—even if their choices are within the conventions of the time. What the women think matters.

In Austen’s day (and too often, now) female characters were there as prizes for the men to possess, or to strive for, or as catalysts for male action. Jane Austen gave her female characters as much agency as a woman could have in those days, and the narrative is mostly seen through their eyes. Charlotte Lucas is a remarkable example for the time; she is not the least romantic, but she sees what she wants, and she gets it. And doesn't pay for getting what she wants by dying of consumption as too often happened to forthright females in novels of the period.

The famed relationship between Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy makes it very clear that they were first attracted by one another's intellect—those two were clearly brain-snogging before they ever got to the fine sheets of Pemberley. It is also clear that the man—his higher social and economic status notwithstanding—had to earn the woman's respect, and rethink some of his assumptions, before she could see in him a possible partner. There is no dominant male making the decisions: those two are equal right down to the last page, and Austen makes it clear that it will continue to be so after the marriage.

Each time I reread the novel, I notice something new, but in the meantime, will I continue to recommend it to young women just venturing into literature? You bet.