Bit of Ivory

I’ve been picking grapes, and there are little peices of dried leaves all over my clothes. Am looking forward to the homemade grape juice, though.

My aunt called this morning and asked if my mom and I would like to go out to lunch, so I went to China Lily with them. My fortune cookie contained this lovely idea: “The world will soon be ready to receive your talents.” So that’s my problem. The world hasn’t been properly prepared! What a relief. Here I thought there was something wrong with me.

Last night I picked up Pride and Prejudice again. (I know, I know.) I randomly opened the book, not really caring what part I read since it’s all wonderful, and ended up reading the moment when Darcy and Lizzy unexpectedly meet at Pemberley. (This would not be so surprising if I were using either of my old hardcover copies, since it’s one of my favorite parts and they both naturally open there, but this was in my new hardcover copy–the one with Colin Firth on the cover–so I was quite pleased that it has already adapted itself to my preferences. :D) And I realized something. As wonderful as Georgette Heyer is, and as entertaining as her books are, there’s nothing like good old Jane Austen after all. There’s just something more there. They deal with the same time period, the same basic group of people (actually, Heyer tends to focus on even higher reaches of society that Austen does), and the basic plot is the same. Heyer’s writing is witty and elegant, her characters are charming or dastardly or annoying but always human and well defined, her hero and heroine are always symphathetic and engaging. The same could be said of Austen (with the possible exception of Fanny in Mansfield Park, but that’s an entirely different subject).

Austen talks about the social, economic, and political problems of her time even less than Heyer does. She ignores both the very high reaches of society and the very low working classes. She concerns herself with a very small group of people, usually in a very small town, or, if in need of a larger scene, the old-fashioned gentility of Bath. She wrote of nothing that she had no first-hand knowledge of–even private conversations between gentlemen are avoided in her novels because she, of course, was never present at one. Every one of her books ends with at least one marriage, and the greater part of the plots are devoted to getting the hero and heroine to the point where they understand each other. Her novels seem written to the very formula required of the modern romance novel.

And yet in every sentence of Austen there is a genius which shines through and casts Heyer into the shade. Her books aren’t just about a boy and a girl, nor are they mere comedies of manner. They’re about people, about humanity, about what it’s like and what it means to be a member of society, a member of a family. They’re about abstract ideas like sense and sensibility and pride and prejudice and love and honor and integrity. They explore moral and ethical issues, from treating other people with respect to chastity and fidelity to corruption in the Church of England. They ask questions about what is more important: society or the individual? intelligence or position? restraint or emotion? love or money? Or is there a middle ground? They raise questions about parenting and family life, and how much the sins of the children are answered on the parents and vice versa. The books are incredibly moral without being didactic, subversive while seeming to adhere to the norms, and instructive without being preachy.

And yet you can ignore all of that and simply get lost in the story.

I’m personally getting sick of books that are so “literary” that they aren’t enjoyable. That are so intent on impressing people and being deep that there’s no plot. Jane Austen, in my opinion, is true literature– the kind of book that appeals to the masses, that can make you laugh and cry and fall in love, but at the same time can provide endless fodder for discussion, analysis, and criticism. That’s the kind of literature that will stand the test of time. There’s a reason why we’re still reading Austen today when the popular books of her time have been all but forgotten. Who reads Fanny Burney any more? Or Ann Radcliffe? Or even Sir Walter Scott? At least, who reads them outside of the college classroom?

And yet everyone reads Austen. At least, everyone should.

But I don’t have any strong feelings about this at all.