Saturday, November 24, 2012
"Northanger Abbey" by Jane Austen
Okay, it's obviously not as magnificent as Pride and Prejudice, as thought-provoking as Sense and Sensibility, etc. Instead, it is fun. The whole novel revolves around one long joke about how the heroine, Miss Catherine Morland, can't possibly be the heroine of a novel. Nothing exciting happens to her, she's not beautiful, her parents and family are all alive and healthy, she's not unhappy, no one kidnaps her, no royalty fall in love with her, she never meets up with a ghost... you get the idea. What she does do is lead a sweet, ordinary life, fall in love with a nice man, get involved in a misunderstanding or two, and wind up happy.
I laughed aloud over and over during this book, and I'm inclined to reread it already. I love books that make me laugh aloud; they almost invariably become favorites of mine. On that merit alone, Northanger Abbey would join Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion as my most favoritest Austen novels. But this book also has very believable characters, the sorts that you could meet up with in real life. No archetypes, no mysterious and wealthy strangers, no near-fatal illnesses. Just people being people :-) I found that especially endearing. In fact, I believe Henry Tilney has supplanted Mr. Knightley as my second-favorite Austen hero.
In case you're not up on your Austen, this is the one where Catherine Morland visits Bath with some family friends and falls in love with Henry Tilney, a young minister with a lively sense of humor.
Particularly Good Bits:
"Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love."
"...for I will not adopt the ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding -- joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages with disgust. Alas! If the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard?"
"The anxiety, which in this state of their attachment must be the portion of Henry and Catherine, and of all who loved either, as to its final event, can hardly extend, I fear, to the bosom of my readers, who will see in the tell-tale compression of the pages before them, that we are all hastening together to perfect felicity."