*This was originally not meant for my blog, but I’ve been focusing writing a longer piece so I decided to put this up anyway. I know it’s not my usual kind of writing, but, different is good, I suppose.*
When I speak of my attachment to “Pride and Prejudice” by Jane Austen, most listeners scoff at the very idea. A teenage girl idolizing Darcy and Elizabeth’s cliché relationship, what could possibly be more stereotypical? First things first, Darcy and Elizabeth are not the reason I love “Pride and Prejudice”. Sorry, Jane Austen. I don’t dream of falling in love all day, and if anything, I feel that their relationship is too far from reality to even dream about.
It’s not the flirtatious rendezvous or the gossip of Longbourn, or the dry humor- none of those contribute to my relationship with the novel. Instead, it’s the familiarity of the words stringing together on coffee-stained, tattered pages. The first time I read “Pride and Prejudice was at age eight. I could barely understand the plot of the story, let alone appreciate a single sentence. But, for some reason, there was something about the complexity I enjoyed. To me, the book was a mystery. And, I had to solve it by making sense of it.
Over the years, I have read “Pride and Prejudice” more times than I could ever imagine. I know every line of every single page in the book. Yet, every time I go back and read the words again, it’s never the same words. I am constantly able to find deeper meaning in everything. Despite both the novel and I being committed to one another, our relationship isn’t boring like most committed relationships in the real world. Instead, I learn of my own self through our relationship. When I look back on my life, I don’t see it through countless photographs. Instead, I picture the many times I have read “Pride and Prejudice” and how each time reading it, I have matured into someone different.