It is a truth universally acknowledged that a former English Major, in possession of many sagging shelves, has not only read but rather enjoyed the works of Jane Austen. However, until this year, I was able to claim (with some pride and much prejudice) that I was not one.
Not that I was unfamiliar. Quite the opposite. Tests, quizzes were passed. Most certainly a few exam essays were scratched out, expounding on some theme or sensory image our professors held dear. I may have even done a paper on Ms. Austen’s rebellious sensibility in the face of gender-normative systemic misogyny. I can’t remember. But I’m sure that big words were used.
But had I read Jane Austen? Had I taken the time to ponder her prose, as assigned? No, most certainly not. College was a blur of opportunity. Every day a new world would unfold, a new girl would break my heart, or a new pal would propose a grand adventure. Curling up with three-hundred pages of an unfamiliar text did not top the list.
Being clever enough to skim and absorb, to take notes and form opinions inline with expectations, and diligent enough (mostly) to duck in bleary-eyed to each and every early-morning class, I got by.
I wanted to do my own thing, but I knew what was expected of me. And so I spent my days with a toehold in tweed-bound reality and my nights engaged in meandering expeditions, filling notebooks with lyrics looking for a tune. One foot in polite society, and one foot sneaking out. Maybe Austen could relate?
As alluded to, all that changed a few months back. Our long-running book club chose Pride & Prejudice as the tome of the month, and I was honor-bound, as a fully grown-up, responsible member to give it a go.
Did I enjoy it? Of course! Darcy’s misunderstood introversion, the depleted Mr. Bennet’s domestic equilibrium, Austen’s quips and barbs as channeled through Elizabeth. All very good things. But high on such a successful pick, the club doubled-down with Northanger Abbey a month later. That was one Austen too far for me, though I did read the thing and took from it some pleasure.
I suppose that I should now look back with regret at my skimming and scheming and sometimes shoddy performance as a young student. I should send this out as a warning to the next generation not to miss out and to fully absorb the professorial wisdom on offer. But Austen’s world is not mine. Neither, for that matter, are Charlotte Brontë’s, nor Emily’s, nor Thomas Hardy’s, nor many others. There are times and places to wander there, yes, and much to learn. But one’s youth is a precious thing. Manage it well, kids, and enjoy it while you can. The books will be waiting when the time is right.
