D. A. Miller’s Jane Austen, or the Secret of Style is a very short book, extremely well written, dense with fascinating thought. Disquieting thought, even, as I find myself wanting to explain, excuse, make everything nice when he discusses the comfortable het world’s assumptions about Austen's books from a non-het POV. Like his analysis of the
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I've known women who didn't want their husbands to have female friends. I don't think I'd want one who didn't. How else would he have learned that people are defined by much more than plumbing?
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And then, I'm delighted that my husband's very dearest friend is a woman.
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I'll weigh in, after I check my work email and all. I'm girding my loins about the first essayist.
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It is quite fascinating to me how very dense JA's books are with details that, if not read closely, can give the reader one impression of a character or situation that could be quite false. Mr. Woodhouse is a great example of that, I think: in a casual reading he seems mostly kindly and doting, but if you dig a little deeper, he comes off as quite selfish with his illnesses - you wonder if he's really ill or just wants others to live for his convenience.
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