July 27, 2011

Rohit Reviews: Emma

You may be forgiven, dear readers, if you were slightly aghast upon examining this latest blog post's title, for it is not often that I, purveyor of all that is somber or melancholy, deign to engage anything—let alone literature—that may be considered happy, much less romantic. Rest assured, however, that my decision to read (not to mention review) Jane Austen's 1815 romance and comedy of manners, Emma, was not taken in a fit of lovesick idiocy which I decried as recently as this past weekend. On the contrary, my reasons for choosing this book (part of my binge a couple weeks back) were quite deliberate. First, after a year-to-date of mostly melancholy or downright depressing tales, it was time for a change. Even I have my limits when it comes to despair. Second, and perhaps equally as important, I needed to introduce some variation into my reading repertoire; one cannot simply alternate between Russian and (God forbid) American literature forever, after all.

Emma satisfied both these conditions quite well. For one, Pride and Prejudice is a favorite and it remains one of the few books I have ever read that made me laugh out loud, a feat for which I have much respect for its author. For another, I knew what to expect from Emma, if for no other reason than having watched Clueless (more than once, I am not afraid to admit); there would be no soul-crushing ending here. Lastly, I was told by a reputable source that this was the better novel vis-à-vis the other Austen I might have considered, Sense and Sensibility.