It is a truth universally acknowledged that you can probably finish this sentence for me. Pride and Prejudice, arguably Jane Austen’s most popular work, has been freaking everywhere the past couple of years. And, aside from the one with all the zombies (enterprisingly titled Pride and Prejudice and Zombies), I am just not that interested.
Now, I have no problem with Jane Austen. She’s a fine writer, although I am tickled by how many classic writers have hated her passionately – Mark Twain said that every time he read P&P he wanted to dig up Austen and “hit her over the skull with her own shinbone” (why he kept reading it is a mystery to me). So far as I’m concerned, I’ve done my time: I read the book in high school, and enjoyed it, and now I do my best to steer clear of adaptations, unauthorized sequels, and public-domain manglings.
That is, until The Lizzie Bennet Diaries got to me.