Nothing about the struggles of Jane Bennet and Elinor Dashwood particularly resonated with me at that moment in my life. I was freshly out of the closet, estranged from my family, and giving toothy blowjobs to Cold Stone Creamery employees in the back of Pontiac Sunfires.
But upon arrival in young adulthood, it’s no longer intrinsically impressive to simply be able to read, and stepping up your game involves performative attempts at The Bell Jar or Sense and Sensibility in public spaces.Īt 16, Jane Austen didn’t really stick out as someone who was particularly for me. I had identified as a reader from a young age, back when reading any book could make you seem intelligent and worthy of attention (the only currency I understood as an adolescent). I didn’t attempt Austen until high school.
