Autism and Snark

So....why is this considered a classic again?

>being this pleb

>inb4 frogposters

I'm asking seriously.
I'm 100 pages in and so far every chapter is just frivolous dialogue that's centered around the (non)characters making witty ripostes at each other. At times it reads like a disjointed come-back manual.
It's exactly as though an autist sat down and ran a script on how he thinks conversations should go.

The only way it could be impressive is if you are memed as fuck and fascinated by bombastic Briticisms. There's zero substance.

At least you seem to be impressed by the wit of Austen. That's something.

Not every something is better than nothing

I'm clearly not impressed with the book, retard. There's nothing wrong with calling wit wit; it doesn't make it impressive. Wit often does come with that that petty connotation. Your post would be a great satire of her novel if I thought you were intelligent enough to intention it as such.

You sound like a very angry person.

>not being in love with Elizabeth

I like Darcy because he's like me: intelligent, sophisticated, but misunderstood.

I'm sure it's a good book and probably progressive for its time. But I just can't fucking stand romances from that era. I had a similar experience reading Madame Bovary. I just can't bring myself to finish them.

It's mocking romances of its time.

this

>romance written by a woman

if you forced yourself to read it that's on you

Fair enough.
I still don't enjoy it.

>WOMEN AND LIBERALS ABSOLUTELY BLOWN THE FUCK OUT

Will they ever recover?

Philistine

I had just finished Vanity Fair and was looking to pick up something from the same period, because Vanity Fair I enjoyed a lot.
I'll finish it anyways just because I think meme books ought to be read for the sake of cultural literacy but it's really not good.
I went into it trying really hard to not go full /r9k/ on Austen but this book is like "Penis Envy: The Novel." She wants to be one of the big boys so bad.

Women simply cannot write as well as men. They are too feeble-minded

I never much liked Vanity Fair. It just seemed too masturbatory for me to really get into it, although that might have been because I had to read it for school.

Evidence of its serialization was abundant at times but I liked most of it nonetheless. Becky is my dark waifu and I liked the simultaneously satirical yet melancholy voice of the narrator (who happens to be the best character.)

That was pretty much my issue with it. I liked the narrator as a character/concept, but for every scathing insight he had there was 5 pages of waffle about the reactions various fictional people would have to a scene, that just killed the pacing.
There was one fantastic description of Becky that I loved, where she's compared to a siren in an incredibly grotesque way, that always struck me as being very sexual. It was a great encapsulation of her character, and the borderline fear that the narrator had for her.

...

It's because Austen's intuition of what's 'novelistic', e.g. the mixing of registers, like in the opening line: 'It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife'. Here, the register starts out exceedingly high, immediately takes a gossipy turn (as in, what the hell is a 'good fortune'?) and ends up on the colloquial bottom, and it's the kind of intuition you also find in something like the opening line of Brontë's Jane Eyre: 'There was no possibility of talking a walk that day', where you'd expect some foregrounding context to the deictic reference of 'that day'.

Reading a novel is about the craft, not something as philistine as plot, for example, or whatever you mean by 'substance'.

taking a walk that day*

Time to take your meds

All British "literature" is like this, boring wanking and ego-stroking. The book is literally a soap opera