The Most Austen Thing I Could Do
Written By Stephanie Hampton
Young Adult Librarian
I’m not reading Pride & Prejudice. But I will gladly watch the miniseries and movie. And I encourage you to watch them too.
For years, I’ve attempted to read the “classic.” I vividly remember my first attempt as a sophomore in high school. Up until that point, advanced reading was the norm for me. I thrived in any classroom that used the popcorn reading method. I loved when my teacher let me go to the library during class readings and let me read silently, because she knew I could “handle a harder book” on my own. Little Steph was on cloud nine. Keeping up with the pattern, fourteen-year-old Steph, fresh off the introduction and loving books like Lord of the Flies, The Secret Life of Bees, and Shakespeare’s sonnets, was sure she could handle this British book the entire world seemed obsessed with. Walking into my local library that day, I knew I would love it as well.
And even better, I knew the book was fresh off the new bookshelf. I know how to spot a new book. Well before I walked the halls of TFPL, I knew the signs of a freshly wrapped and shelved library book. Not only was the cover firm and smooth, but the protective cover was also scratchless, and most importantly, it still had the new-book smell. Nestled next to similarly smooth copies of Emma, Sense & Sensibility, and Mansfield Park. I picked out Pride & Prejudice with confidence and the nerdy joy of being the first one to check out this book.
I was so bored. I couldn’t get past page 10.
At the time, I was coming into my own as a little social justice warrior, obsessed with women’s equality, making a point to read celebrated, legendary authors, and for the first time noticing the limitations still put on girls and women. This was supposed to be right up my alley. Jane Austen. A revolutionary female powerhouse of an author. She broke barriers. This universally loved piece of literature was supposed to be for me because Elizabeth Bennett should be for me.
A character who refused to fall for the social mores of her time. To marry (and at that time, essentially signing over her freedom) to the richest man in the countryside, just for his riches. With no thought to her feelings. Because women weren’t supposed to have those. In the eyes of society, we couldn’t be trusted with our own thoughts, feelings, or wants. And Lizzie Bennet said no. She refused him. And when he changed, when his actions revealed his character, she reconsidered. She found love and joy in the people around her, and finally accepted Mr. Darcy’s proposal when she knew he loved her genuinely. This was supposed to be for me.
So why didn’t I like this book? Why couldn’t I finish it? Why couldn’t I force myself to finish it as I had done with books I disliked before? And years later, I would try again. And again. Each time thinking: I’ve conquered Hamlet, Shakespeare. I abhorred The Catcher In The Rye, but I finished it. This silly little romance should be easy.
But here’s the irony: I hate romance. I assumed it would be easier because it was a love story, something light, something simple. But it wasn’t light to me. It wasn’t simple. It just wasn’t for me. And life is too short to force yourself to finish a book the world tells you you have to love.
I had this same dilemma with The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison. As a teenager, it was too heavy for me. I put it down in shame, convinced maybe I wasn’t as “good” a reader as I thought. But when I picked it up again in 2025, I finished it in a week, and would’ve finished sooner if I didn’t have bills to pay. The difference wasn’t intelligence. It was timing. It was a life experience. It was growth. I had to learn that you’re never too old to learn. And you’re never obligated to love something just because it’s canon.
So no, I won’t read Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. I probably never will. And guess what? That’s okay.
Because at its core, Pride and Prejudice is about a woman choosing her partner. Refusing to accept a proposal simply because it’s practical. Refusing to shrink herself for security. Choosing what feels right instead of what is expected.
And in that way, maybe I understand it perfectly.
I’m choosing, too.
I’m choosing how I engage with stories.
I’m choosing joy over obligation.
I’m choosing the version that speaks to me, the miniseries, the film, the adaptation.
And maybe that’s the most Austen thing I could do.
At least I think it is, and that’s good enough for me.
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