There was a time in my life when classics bored the heck out of me. Pulp fiction was the way to go (James Rollins, anyone?), and anything that did not have a couple of murders did not go well with me. Wodehouse was perhaps the only “oldie” who entered my sphere of erudition, but that was because he made me laugh, and no one who makes me laugh can stay away from me.
Perhaps age changes people, or life-partnership with superior intellectuals, or a case of Minver-Cheevy-syndrome, or (more likely) menopausal hormone mess-up, my reading habits have, in the past years, steadily moved towards the turn of earlier centuries, and Tolstoy, Nabokov and Dickens bedew my pillow more often than not. (While we are at it, Scott Fitzgerard is way overrated. The Great Gatsby gave me a headache)
I have attempted reading Jane Austin when I was in my teens, and gave it up as a bad job within two pages. I am halfway (48% on my kindle) through it now, and am not surprised why. Jane Austin’s Emma is a mirror of what I was at that age – an impulsive, spoilt brat of a youngster, the kind you want to slap tight across her face, and it probably bothered me to see how irritating I really was.
A beautifully written book, with so many quotable quotes. The only problem is that all events are very predictable – which is not bad, we are not reading a work of mystery, after all, but drama – but it is a little annoying that the protagonist (that prick Emma) does not see what is staring at everyone else’s face. But it makes sense, a narcissistic, self-cetered woman will only choose to believe in her own delusions no matter what screams out. One can easily picture Emma in a selfie-snap, version 1815.
I am reading the book really slowly, because this is one of the books that would make me feel sad about completing.