Here is a prime example of a creative work that has shot itself in the foot by its own success. Every facet, every detail, and every syllable of this book has already been cinematized and recreated in any of a dozen varied incarnations. There is no peril in Mr. Bingley's return to the city, there is no sting in Elizabeth Bennett's refusal of the cad Mr. Darcy, there is no gravity in Lydia's illicit elopement and no surprise when everything is wrapped up ever so nicely with a pretty bow at the end.
Knowing every unfolding event before it occurs leaves the reader to rely solely on the quality of writing which, while witty and descriptive, is not enough to make up for the sheer boredom of knowing a books end before you begin. On the other hand, the book's chief character Elizabeth is a pretentious, know-it-all giving the book, told mostly through her perspective, an air of pretension.
The few moments of fresh thinking, provided mostly by Charlotte Lucus (the ugly friend who's "sad" situation is thrust down our throats like a bad meal) and Jane (the gorgeous older sister whose unconditional generosity makes her views "naive" in the eyes of the flawless wisdom of Austen/Elizabeth) only provide a temporary relieve before the writer through the mouthpiece of her character continues on her rampage.
Ultimately, this a flimsy love story. When you peel away the layers of "witty dialogue" and "crisp writing" you find a drawn out story of boy meets girl where by some miraculous set of circumstances an otherwise daft and obstinate female finally allows herself to fall in love.
Pride and Prejudice:
Boy meets girl. Girl hates Boy. Boy hates everything. Girl hates boy. Boy loves girl. Girl hates boy. Boy tries to woo girl. Girl hates boy. Boy goes to ridiculous lengths to prove his love for girl. Girl hates boy. Boy gets fed up with girl and marries someone else. Girl dies poor and is buried in a paupers grave.
That's how I would end it anyway.
Sidenote: I hate Twilight. In my opinion Stephanie Meyers' vampire love story (vampires my eye) is the ugly illegitimate child of Jane Austen. It panders to the female masses in the same spoon-fed way, only today's generation is too diluted by American Idol to read post-colonial vernacular. Ergo, sparkling skin, six-packs and teen angst so thick you could cut it with a knife.
Seriously, what the heck is that? ----------------------->