When I was a child, my method for choosing what to read was to go to the library and read every book by an author that I already knew I liked.
Obviously, this was a flawed method because I ran out of books pretty quickly.
If I wasn't already familiar with an author, I approached a new book like I might a strange dog. I would look at it carefully. I would read the back of the book, the inside flap, maybe scan a few pages, ready to drop it and run at the slightest sign of something I didn't like. I had to get a feel for the book, and it had to feel right. Otherwise I wouldn't read it. I turned away from the tawdry romances with their ubiquitous shirtless Fabios, and the garish covers of mystery novels, usually sporting some kind of intriguing trinket on a purple cover with yellow text, and many of the juvenile contemporary young adult novels that showed a photograph of a depressed teenager. I knew these were not the books for me; they didn't
feel right. I wasn't interested in them - I felt I already knew all their secrets. Or that their secrets weren't worth knowing.
But if I was ever going to find new authors, risks had to be taken. I still remember the first Jane Austen novel I read. Inadvertently, I began with her most popular work,
Pride and Prejudice. The copy I stumbled across was a red book, with gold lettering, the kind that comes in those fancy library collections where all the books match. I know it came from a collection such as this because the book was at my grandparents house, buried amidst other classics like
Don Quixote and
War and Peace.
I was probably only twelve at the time, though that sounds young, I couldn't have been much older because my mom was pregnant with my younger sister and my older sister and I had been sent to stay at my grandparents house for two weeks because we'd been exposed to the chicken pox and had to be sent away since my mother had never had them.
I can't stress how bored I was. So. Bored. It wasn't my grandparents' fault. They were enjoying their retirement and hadn't had kids around in years. They had a strict routine that involved working out before the sun was up, eating small portions of vegetables and cottage cheese, and falling asleep on the couch at 7 pm watching PBS.
I could have read any of the books on that shelf and I don't remember why I chose to look at
Pride and Prejudice. Deprived of any picture on the front, any writing on the back cover, and no book jacket with helpful hints, I didn't have much to go on. I opened it and read a few lines. And didn't put it down. I remember a few chapters later thinking,
How did I not know about this book or this author? By that time my father had already read us a few Dickens' novels, Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and Wilke Collins, so it was a genuine question.
The wonderful thing about reading
Pride and Prejudice so young was that I was truly taken in by the novel. When Darcy proposed to Elizabeth I was shocked. I hated him; I'd even pictured him like one of my classic ugly bad guys. Kind of like Gaston. Then when Elizabeth started falling for him I was gradually won over. I'm pretty sure I stopped reading and mentally changed his appearance to be more fitting of his new role as lead man.
That first read, I really experienced Darcy the way Elizabeth did. I'm not sure many people get to experience
Pride and Prejudice like that, because most people know all about it before they read it and because most people bring some amount of maturity to the book and aren't fooled when Elizabeth despises him. If I read the book now, I know I would have identified Darcy right off the bat as
the guy. After all, he was the richest and Austen, I learned later as I devoured all 6 and a half of her books, is all about the happy endings.
What about you? Did you know Darcy was the guy right from the beginning? Were you fooled along with Elizabeth? When did you first read the book?
