A few weeks ago, I was suddenly accosted by my roommate on the matter of my fondness for Jane Austen; she took umbrage at my use of the word “suitor” in the modern age. In a much perturbed and concerned tone, she asked: “Marlena, why do you like Jane Austen so much anyways? Her books are all about gossip and parties, and you don’t seem like the kind of person for that.”
I was greatly amused by the question. I also understood it, because, as a consequence of movie adaptations in recent years and general unfamiliarity with her works, the unfortunate Ms. Austen has acquired a reputation as a writer of mushy romance novels.
