Reporter's Notebook

Let’s Talk About Jane Austen
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July 18 marks 200 years since the beloved novelist’s death—or, as some of our staff superfans like to say, since Austen achieved immortality. In her honor, we’re hosting a bi-Austen-tennial celebration of essays and reader discussion. Come back every day this week for more questions and responses, and check out the rest of our Austen coverage here.

Show 2 Newer Notes

Building a Career From Austen Fandom

J. Ratcliffe / Reuters

Among the many readers who answered our call for Jane Austen introduction stories, we heard from some whose early encounters with the novelist’s work had blossomed into careers. Take Linda Troost, an academic who acquired her first Austen book by chance in 1972:

I fished a late–19th-century copy of Pride and Prejudice bound with Northanger Abbey out of a billiard table. I was at a National Trust (USA) book sale at the Woodrow Wilson House and the book cost $1. I originally bought it just for the nice binding.

I’ve ended up making an academic career from the study of Austen, especially adaptations, and I’ve done it in collaboration with my academic husband. It doesn’t get better than that.

Check out one of Linda’s books, Jane Austen in Hollywood, here.

Lauren in Chicago is technically Team Brontë on the literary podcast she co-hosts—but her love for Austen helped lead her to start it:

Pride and Prejudice was required summer reading for me during middle school.  I instantly fell in love and carried it around with me all summer long. I had to buy a second copy before the school year started because I took my original copy to the pool where it met with an unfortunate ending.

Jane Austen is responsible for so many of my friendships.  My best friend Hannah and I spend an inordinate amount of time arguing over who is the best Austen heroine.  Obviously it’s Lizzy Bennet, but Hannah insists that it’s Anne Elliot, which is nonsense.  

We argue about it so much we started a podcast about Jane Austen and we get to now argue with other Janeites all over the world. It’s called Austen vs. Bronte: Bonnets at Dawn.  I spend my days researching and talking Austen in preparation for an upcoming book based on the podcast.

More on that book:

In the early winter of 2006, I was living with my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend. We’d recently moved into a beautifully renovated Brooklyn brownstone that we called the “Penthouse” because it was on the top floor of a four-story walk up. Despite this new beginning, our love had grown stale—it felt like we had less and less in common. I preferred to spend an evening at home than go out with him and his friends.

One night I stayed in, curled on the sofa with the cats, and pulled up our cable on-demand menu. The Keira Knightley and Matthew MacFadyen version of Pride and Prejudice caught my eye. I’d read the book years ago, but connected more with the brooding loneliness of Jane Eyre than any of Austen’s wealthy and silly single girls.

I was hooked almost immediately, but the scene that crushed my nearly broken heart happens about 25 minutes in, when the elder Bennet daughters are escorted out of Mr. Bingley’s house after Jane’s illness turns it into an impromptu infirmary. In a discreet, barely noticeable gesture, Darcy sticks out his hand to support Elizabeth as she gets in her family’s carriage. The scene is all giggling girls and polite chaos—then, silence. The camera focuses on the touch, and then, a few moments later, you see the close-up of Darcy extending his own fingers, likely quite thrilled at the forbidden physical contact. On my first, say, 10 viewings, I felt the tingling in my own hands.

At a time when I was rapidly falling out of love, that fleeting moment served as a visceral reminder of the spark of new romance. And just a few months after that breakup, I met the man who would end up being my husband. We were more like Bridget Jones and Mark Darcy, running into each other over the years, but finallyroughly five years after I first watched that electric touchhe kissed me. / Getty

This week at The Atlantic we’re marking the 200th anniversary of Jane Austen’s death with a celebration of her life and legacy. Our cofounder Ralph Waldo Emerson might have been less than enthused about these digital festivities; as Lee Siegel reported in our January 1998 issue:

Austen irritated Emerson: he found her novels “vulgar in tone, sterile in artistic invention, imprisoned in the wretched conventions of English society.” All that her characters cared about was “marriageableness.” “Suicide,” the great Transcendentalist proposed, "is more respectable.”

Emerson wasn’t alone in his distaste for Austen. Readers—whether they be other well-known writers, academics, or everyday consumers of literature—have long been divided in their opinions of the author. Some love her. Some hate her. Some hold her up as a literary icon, while others dismiss her as a chick-lit writer who concerned herself too much with marriage and not enough with pressing world affairs. Some admire the gentility and romance of the late-18th-century British society she portrayed, even as others praise her for satirizing and subverting the values of the same society.

Discussing what makes the author feel relevant even now, 200 years after her death, Nicholas Dames writes in our upcoming September 2017 issue:

As Austen’s own Emma Woodhouse put it to her querulous father, “one half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other.” … in the case of Austen, that misunderstanding seems to have an urgency that isn’t attached to any other canonized, pre-20th-century literary figure.

Put simply, as Siegel observed, “No one, it seems, has ever been neutral or aloof about Jane Austen.”

In our own pages, contributors have expressed a consistently positive opinion of Austen over the past 154 years. Mrs. R.C. Waterston complimented her in our February 1863 issue on her “rare intuition” and “peculiar genius,” while Ferris Greenslet, writing nearly 40 years later, called her “after Sappho the most unquestioned genius of her sex” and praised her wit, her sensibility, and her “chief literary virtue, her unique and never adequately to be praised power of imaginative realization.”

In 1998, Siegel had similarly laudatory words. “No other author,” he wrote,

goes with such casual intimacy as she, for all her delicate soundings of formal social relations, into the vulnerable spot where society touches the root of self. And few authors are at the same time so quietly fearsome and so intensely consoling. …

Austen’s style is one of English literature’s marvels. Her repartee is sometimes as dazzling as anything in Sheridan, and is one reason that her perpetual hope of seeing exciting theater was disappointed whenever she went. …

She had a flawless ear for moral counterpoint, for the hidden chords of how things ought to be and really were. She pitched her delicately endangered sentences, her psychology, her dialogue and drama, to some invisible key way at the back of her language, just as Mozart pitched his compositions to a frequency beyond human range, way at the back of his music.

And Dames is just as complimentary of her style, writing:

Her sentences can leave readers in a swoon, with their controlled wit, their many-edged irony, their evident pleasure in their own mastery—and in the masterful way they negotiate or transform less graceful realities.

“Austen,” he asserts, “has firmly joined Shakespeare not just as a canonical figure but as a symbol of Literature itself, the hazel-eyed woman in the mobcap as iconic now as the balding man in the doublet.”

But the debate over Austen’s literary prowess has nevertheless cropped up beside this stream of praise in the archives, as our admiring contributors have collected the opinions of other readers, some of whom were recognizable literary figures themselves.

Elinor Dashwood sits sewing in an 1899 illustration
Elinor, in an 1899 illustration (Chris Hammond)

If you took Elinor Dashwood, the heroine of Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility, and turned her into a male software engineer in his sixties, you’d get my dad. Seriously: He’s kind, smart, moral, sometimes stoic in the extreme. He can be reserved, even about things that he enjoys, which is the only explanation I have for why I’ve never talked to him about our shared enthusiasm for Jane Austen. She has the distinction of being one of two novelists (the other is J.R.R. Tolkien) that break up his almost-entirely-nonfiction reading diet, but I’ve never asked him why. It’s possible that we were too busy marathoning the Jennifer Ehle/Colin Firth Pride and Prejudice on the couch together.

A few days ago, we talked about what he loves about Austen, and what it’s like to be a male reader in a very female-dominated fandom. I had to start with why his yellowing paperback copy of Sense and Sensibility appears on his nightstand every few years next to his usual science and history books:  

Jane Austen writes of a world that has a very clear system of rules and morals, which she believes in. There’s a certainty about how things are supposed to work that is kind of comforting in a way. And the other thing is that she has such a wonderfully clear and lucid style. Some 19th-century writing is hard to read, but her sentence structures are both elegant and straightforward in kind of the same way that Mozart’s music is.

C. E. Brock / Hugh Thomson / Katie Martin / The Atlantic

Last week I asked readers to tell us about their favorite characters from Jane Austen’s body of work. Janeites responded with praise for characters ranging from Pride and Prejudice’s Lydia Bennet to Lady Susan’s Susan Vernon—characters who made them laugh or cry, or gave them strength, or taught them something about themselves.

Like me, and Jane Austen herself, many readers loved Emma Woodhouse despite—or even because of—her evident flaws. “Emma is rich, pretty, and thinks more of her matchmaking abilities than she should,” Kristina Gregerson summarized. “But,” she added,

she is also a devoted daughter, a loving friend, and above all is someone who is willing to own up to her mistakes and attempt to right them. Emma is a heroine you root for as she not only finds love (as any great Austen heroine must), but also as she matures from an often inconsiderate girl to a sincere and kind young woman.

Katrina Toth-Green was similarly impressed by Emma’s maturation, writing:

There’s something about Emma Woodhouse’s growth that I think is incredibly realistic, even now. She wants to be empathetic and wants to live out her values of love, sympathy and caring, but doesn’t know how. She’s young and just trying to figure out how to be the best she can be. but like most of us, she has to experience the worst of herself first. She struggles with the fact that the best people in your life aren’t always those who make you feel good about yourself, but it’s those who make you into a better person despite how hard it is to confront your flaws and mistakes. Her transformation highlights that admiration is worthless if in the end your actions don’t reflect your values. Emma has been one of my favorite books for years and the more I read it, the more I love this character.

Leah not only enjoyed Emma’s complexity, but has also drawn wisdom from her experiences. “I’ve always related to the flawed character of Emma,” she wrote. “As a young teen, I learned from Emma and her mistakes and flaws, and as a young adult I still benefit from reading the novel.”

Other readers similarly opted for characters they could identify with. Maeve, writing from Connecticut, cringed my way through Northanger Abbey” with its heroine, Catherine Morland:

Catherine is a dramatic, gothic-novel-loving teen who is desperate for drama and tries to turn her own life into a ghost story, offending and upsetting her friends in the process. Throughout my teens I did my best to make my life something in between a fantasy novel and a Sofia Coppola movie—I can relate.

She’s funny, outgoing, and magnificently stupid. But Catherine, in her ridiculousness, just wants to make life a fun story. She is the angsty suburban girl who invites you to join her book club with a message written in invisible ink. I would join in a heartbeat.

Africa Studio / Shutterstock / Katie Martin / The Atlantic

“There are too many favourites,” begins the very first response to my callout for favorite Jane Austen lines, from Gillian in Ontario. Readers shared an admirable assortment of them: wisecracks and ironic turns of phrase, expressions of affection, assertions of independence and strength, small bits of wisdom. They drew their selections from a motley array of books and characters, ranging from the ever-quotable Emma Woodhouse to a lesser-known side character in Austen’s early epistolary novel Love and Friendship. (The line from the latter, which I had never before read: Run mad as often as you chuse; but do not faint.) But like me—and my parents—most readers chose satirical lines from Pride and Prejudice.

Writing from Germany, Claudia reflected on her first encounter with that book’s famous first line:

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

It is the first line from the book which was my first contact with Jane Austen’s writing, at age 19 during my first month at university. When I read that perfect first sentence, endless possibilities appeared in my mind: this book, my new life, oh, the thrill of it all!

Pride and Prejudice was the first of Austen’s novels that I read, too, and I remember feeling something similar as I read the line, finally easing open the door to her literary world for myself. But my introduction to Austen—and Pride and Prejudice in particular—came years earlier, as I watched the 1995 BBC series and listened to my dad quote Mr. Bennet’s best quips. So I felt most nostalgic when re-reading those lines, chosen by several readers with a shared affection for his witticisms.

Ashley King, for one, favors this “slam Mr. Bennet gives Mr. Collins”:

It is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?

“It is the most outrageous thing anyone has ever imagined a human being saying to another,” she wrote. “Oh, I wish it were real and that it really happened! My jaw still drops to the floor when I read it/watch it. The cojones on Mr. Bennet are legendary.”

You can watch the exchange here, among other absurd interactions between Mr. Collins and the Bennet family:

A man in period costume reads from a copy of Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice."
Matt Cardy / Getty / Katie Martin / The Atlantic

I’ll admit to tearing up, the way you do for the end of a really good novel, as I read through the scores of reader responses we received to our callout for Jane Austen introduction stories. I’m not sure what came over me. Maybe it was the charm of all those far-flung fans connected through one author’s work—or maybe just the swoony effects of watching people fall in love with a book, almost a hundred times over.

For that’s how numerous readers described it—a dizzy rush, a thrill of discovery, reading breathless through weekends or into the night. Many of their first Austen encounters came on syllabi or summer reading lists—as Jane Booth of Charlotte, North Carolina, puts it, “the classic book report assignment that seemed tedious then but feels now like a wrapped gift.” Others were more serendipitous. Sandra Hutchison in Troy, New York, picked up a copy of Pride and Prejudice forgotten by her babysitter, quickly fell in love—and grew up to write novels herself. Hasifleur in New York City found a book of Austen quotes resting on the toilet tank in a relative’s bathroom: “After the first time I picked it up, going to the bathroom was never the same.” And Angela in California received her auntie’s crumbling copy of Pride and Prejudice after she “listed ‘your favorite book’ on a birthday wish list one early-teenage year.” She still has the book, now bound with a rubber band. She also has a daughter named Darcy.

Juti in Kansas comforted a widowed friend with tea and biscuits and Sense and Sensibility. Amy in Maryland read Persuasion a dozen times while her husband was deployed with the U.S. Navy. Shannon Kitchen in Texas read Emma aloud to her 13-year-old daughter, and “watched her fall in love just as I had years before.” Katherine Hysmith in North Carolina sprinkles Austen through her doctoral work in food studies, while Ismini Sykioti in Athens writes of a lifelong love of literature: “I am head of English at an international school today because I watched Pride and Prejudice in 1996.”

And indeed, if our informal survey of Austenites revealed anything, it’s that those first encounters with the stories we love can have long-term consequences. Below are three stories from readers who found that their love of Austen transformed, shaped, and even helped to save their lives.

First up, Abby Gordon of Massachusetts recounts a true Austenian romance:

I was about 13 when my mom brought home a book-on-cassette-tape version of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice from the library. It was probably 10 or 12 tapes in all, and when my mom reached the end of the first tape she excitedly handed it over to me, along with an old portable cassette player. For the next week, we played a kind of leapfrog, the person behind waiting impatiently for the other to finish the next tape. We were enamored with the witty Elizabeth Bennet, alternately angered and charmed by the arrogant but dignified Mr. Darcy, taken in by Wickham, and thoroughly ticked off by Mrs. Bennet. It was probably the only time during my teenage years that my mom and I agreed so completely.

Years later, I was living for the summer in Buffalo, New York, with a group of other young adults. Almost immediately, I found myself employing Austen’s inimitable quotes in an ongoing battle of wits with one of my housemates: Having disliked each other during college, David and I coped with living in the same house by trash-talking each other in a manner worthy of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

If Jane Austen were alive today, I like to think she’d be pretty at home on the internet. That eminently judgy narrator of hers would delight in quipping and snarking her way through Twitter and Tumblr—not to mention the fact that so many of the dynamics she observed in Regency-era England continue, even 200 years later, to be just a little too real. As one Tumblr user puts it:

Austen is a relentless observer of her world and its ironies, of her characters’ absurdities and their redeeming graces. Austen analyzes a minor social interaction and sums up the universally acknowledged truths in it—those feelings you could hardly express, much less find funny, until you saw them elegantly summed up in one or two sentences. Austen, in other words, is excellent fodder for memes.

I’ll be honest: I am by no means as well-versed in memes as I am in Jane Austen, although I did write at least two college papers on each of those topics. (Did you know, for example, that “Socially Awkward Penguin epitomizes the inverted self”? I assure you that it does.) But I’m partial to this widely covered series from the writer and blogger KC Kahler: a mash-up of Onion headlines and Austen-adaptation scenes that perfectly captures Austen’s seamless blend of large-scale and small-scale social satire. Juxtaposing text in a crass or clinical tone with gauzy romantic imagery, she addresses broader issues like class and gender dynamics by noting how they play out in everyday awkward moments. Such as this uncomfortable truth that underlies the romance of the well-intentioned-yet-slightly-snobbish matchmaker Emma Woodhouse:

KC Kahler

But again, my meme knowledge is limited. So I’m turning to you: What’s your favorite Jane Austen meme? If you’ve created or spotted one that gets at the heart of Austenian humor (or pathos), please share it on Twitter and Instagram with the hashtag #biAustentennial, and we’ll post a roundup of some of our favorites next week.

Katie Martin / The Atlantic

“The first rule of Fight Club is: One never mentions Fight Club. No corsets, no hat pins—and no crying.”

That’s Lizzie Bennet, dictating to her fellow fighters the rules that govern an improbable collective: Jane Austen’s Fight Club. The club, portrayed in a viral YouTube video first posted in 2012, features a collection of Jane Austen’s most notable heroines (Lizzie, Fanny, Emma, Elinor, Marianne) slapping each other, hitting each other, kicking each other, swinging off trees, flipping their way over well-manicured lawns, and in general acting like a bunch of punch-drunk characters in a Chuck Palahniuk novel. Except … lady characters. Feminist characters. Characters who, despite being boosted of breast and empired of waist, can totally fend for themselves. “You’re very clever, aren’t you?” an anonymous man asks Lizzie. “How’s that going for you, being clever?”

Lizzie smiles a knowing smile. “Splendidly,” she replies.

C. E. Brock / Hugh Thomson / Katie Martin / The Atlantic

Just before she began writing Emma, Jane Austen called the novel’s young protagonist “a heroine whom no-one but myself will much like.” Emma Woodhouse is privileged, self-involved, often frivolous, and sometimes even (unintentionally) cruel. In her overconfident attempts at matchmaking, she repeatedly misinterprets signals and muddles relationships to the point of catastrophe. She lacks the wise-beyond-her-years insight and the intellectualism of most of Austen’s protagonists. She’s also my favorite of all Austen’s characters.

When I was younger I loved witty, headstrong Lizzy Bennet and the diametrically opposed Dashwood sisters, self-contained Elinor and passionate Marianne. I enjoyed the pompousness of Mr. Collins and Lady Catherine de Bourgh and the sometimes awkward charms of love interests like Mr. Darcy and Colonel Brandon. I watched the 1996 film version of Emma and Clueless, a contemporary adaptation of the novel, but never felt much attachment to Gwyneth Paltrow’s Emma or to Cher, who came off as shallow and lacking in genuine compassion.

It was only when I read Emma for the first time as a freshman in college that Emma Woodhouse really got to me. As Austen wrote her, Emma felt flawed in a way I could relate to: good-hearted and clever, but too wrapped up in her own world and too assured of her own opinions and talents. She felt like people I knew, or maybe even like me—like a fortunate young woman trying, and sometimes failing, to live well.

Africa Studio / Shutterstock / Katie Martin / The Atlantic

I learned Jane Austen’s lines like a second language when I was growing up. My quip-quoting, BBC box-set owning, Austen-loving parents began immersing me in her literary world before I was old enough to comprehend all its nuances and ironic undertones. By the time I picked up Pride and Prejudice to read it myself when I was in middle school, the characters and scenes felt as familiar as memories from my own life—and I already knew my parents’ favorite lines by heart.

As I’ve grown older and read and reread Pride and Prejudice and Austen’s other novels, I’ve become attached to other lines, both satiric—like the ones my parents favor—and more sincere. Professions of love: “You pierce my soul.”  Feminist rejoinders: “A woman may not marry a man merely because she is asked, or because he is attached to her, and can write a tolerable letter.” Descriptions of beloved—and not-so-beloved—characters: “She was a woman who spent her days in sitting nicely dressed on a sofa.” Each time I read one of Austen’s books or watch one of the film adaptations, I’m struck by new moments and new lines, adding to a mental collection much too extensive for this one brief note.

But the lines my parents love are still the ones I know best, and the ones I hold closest to my heart. So when I started listing out my favorites, I reached out to both of them, prompting two enthusiastic text conversations.

My mom is an especial fan of Pride and Prejudice heroine Elizabeth Bennet’s absurd, puffed-up cousin and suitor, Mr. Collins, and Mr. Darcy’s haughty aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. This, from Lady Catherine, is her “all-time favorite” Austen quote—and also one of mine:

There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient.

My dad, on the other hand, is a devotee of Lizzy’s wise-cracking, socially disenchanted father, Mr. Bennet. “The best stand-alone JA quote of all time,” he texted me almost immediately, is this one, spoken by Mr. Bennet to Lizzy:

For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn?

It’s one of my very favorites, and the first one I thought of, too—because it’s a great line, but also because it always, always reminds me of my dad, and the days we’ve spent watching and discussing and laughing over Pride and Prejudice together.

Now we’d like you to join the discussion. We’ll be talking more about the best Jane Austen lines as part of our celebration of her life and legacy next week, and we’d like to hear your nominations. In this form, please share some of your favorite turns of phrase from her books (and the many adaptations they’ve inspired), and tell us a bit about what makes them your favorites.

Matt Cardy / Getty / Katie Martin / The Atlantic

If you, like me, are a fan of Jane Austen’s novels, you must acknowledge the crucial importance of a good introduction. And I owe my enduring Austen addiction to my mom—who, with all the best parts of a Mrs. Bennet’s concern for her daughter’s well-being, introduced me to Ang Lee’s adaptation of Sense and Sensibility when I was still young enough to play make-believe as Marianne Dashwood. From there I was hooked; we watched Gwyneth Paltrow in Emma and Laurence Olivier in the 1940 Pride and Prejudice, which I mostly appreciated for the hoopskirts. For a few years we made the viewing of the six-hour BBC Pride and Prejudice into an annual ritual, involving homemade cream scones (clipped from the New York Times recipe page), marmalade, English breakfast tea, and (this was the part I found most exciting) sugar cubes. Mom spread out the china and antique doilies she never had an excuse to use, and I’d stitch outfits for my dolls in imitation of the heroines.

At the two- or three-hour mark we’d take a break to clear away the crumbs; my dad, who normally folded laundry in front of a college basketball game, would bring a hamper up from the basement; and in this way my family absorbed Austen into our lexicon of inside jokes. Dad perfected the Mr. Collins wave; Mom adopted “icky Wicky” as an insult; and to this day we tease each other with imitations of Lady Catherine, pronouncing ourselves in haughty falsetto “most seriously displeased.”

I soon outgrew the tea parties, but I haven’t outgrown Jane. Today—200 years after Austen’s death on July 18, 1817—I still turn to her novels and to the many adaptations of them for insight and comfort. Austen’s shaped my interests as a reader, my voice as a writer, and my confidence as a young woman—but all of it traces back to watching those movies when I was a kid. And so, to kick off a reader discussion in Notes about Austen’s legacy, I asked my mom to tell me how she, in turn, was first introduced to Austen. She replied:

I think I must have met Lizzie and Mr. Darcy when I was a teenager, probably on a lazy weekend afternoon when I had time to kill and was flipping through channels on TV. Back then you could always find an old black and white movie, like an Abbott and Costello or an Alfred Hitchcock, on the local station. That’s how I discovered the 1940 version of Pride and Prejudice, with Laurence Olivier and Greer Garson. I loved it. It was so campy and lively, with the over the top costumes and stagey acting, and it seemed like the actors were having so much fun. I had never read the book, so I didn’t know that they took so many liberties with the story.  

Years later, when I was a mom with two kids and money was tight and time was scarce (no more lazy Saturday afternoons), I heard on Fresh Air that there was a new annotated Pride and Prejudice. By then I owned the book and had read it a few times, but I was excited to get a hold of that annotated version even though I felt guilty spending the money.  I wanted to read all the details, the background explanations, get to know them better. I remember sneaking in a trip to Barnes and Noble between errands, and then sitting in the car and opening up that fat volume. The sun was shining outside. I knew I had to get  going, get back to work; but for a brief, stolen moment, I was alone with Jane and her lovers.

Do you remember your first meeting with an Austen novel? Have Austen’s characters played a significant role in your life? Fill out this form to tell us your story, and we’ll share some of the responses next week—and follow along on this thread for more Austenian discussion.