Word.

As a part of my secondary education, I was forced to read Jane Austen. I know Pride and Prejudice is considered a classic, but argh, it has to be one of the most boring books I’ve ever waded through. I mean, Chaucer, with all the archaic spelling and middle English phonology, is far more entertaining than old Jane. He writes about knights, pilgrims, drinking, trips, and drinking on trips. She writes about prissy girls acting coy and trying to get married. Honestly, which would you prefer?

Anyway, I ashamedly hated Austen in secret. Until I became an undergrad, that is. As a first year, while reading up on Mark Twain, I came upon this excerpt from a letter of his to Joseph Twichell, dated 13th March 1898.

I haven’t any right to criticise books, and I don’t do it except when I hate them. I often want to criticise Jane Austen, but her books madden me so that I can’t conceal my frenzy from the reader; and therefore I have to stop every time I begin. Every time I read ‘Pride and Prejudice’ I want to dig her up and beat her over the skull with her own shin-bone.

Word, Mark. Word.