Tor Classics, $4.99, ISBN 978-1-46680-409-8
Romance, 1994 (Reissue)

Let’s start with the basics. Pride and Prejudice, published in 1813, is the literary equivalent of that one band everyone claims to love even if they only know the greatest hits. Jane Austen penned this masterpiece in a world where women’s rights were practically a myth and the best a girl could do was marry well or become a governess (not exactly an upgrade). While it might not have made her rich—Ms Austen died with a modest fortune, but she wasn’t exactly rolling in it—“Pride and Prejudice” did cement her as a literary heavyweight, even though she wrote anonymously during her lifetime, modestly tucked behind the phrase “By a Lady”.

Today, the book is the pride of countless bookshelves and the prejudice of anyone who thinks it’s just a dry, boring romance. It’s also the source material for an endless stream of adaptations, from Bollywood extravaganzas to zombie-infested dramas—most of which are cringeworthy attempts to milk Ms Austen’s original brilliance. You can’t swing a bonnet without hitting some new iteration pandering to the Anglophiles or reimagining Darcy as a brooding, misunderstood heartthrob. Spoiler: He’s really just a socially awkward rich guy.

For those somehow not in the know (and shame on you if that’s the case), the story is as follows: Elizabeth Bennet, one of five sisters in a family of middling means, is too smart for her own good and too poor to be taken seriously by the snobs of Regency England. Enter Mr Darcy, a man who has all the charm of a wet sock but more money than God. He insults her, she roasts him with the finesse of a Michelin-starred chef, and eventually, they realize they’re made for each other. In between, we’re treated to matchmaking misadventures, sibling shenanigans, and enough social commentary to make a Victorian blush.

Here’s where it gets fun. Pride and Prejudice isn’t just a novel—it’s a biting satire wrapped in a corset and sprinkled with wit sharper than a Lady Catherine de Bourgh glare. Ms Austen uses the story to poke fun at the absurdities of her society, particularly the institution of marriage. When Elizabeth declares:

“I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without reference to you, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me.”

It’s less a declaration of independence and more a mic drop in the face of patriarchal nonsense.

Is it a satire? Absolutely. A parody? In parts, yes. Take Mr Collins, for instance—he’s practically a caricature of every obsequious, socially climbing buffoon who ever dared to think he was a catch. His proposal to Elizabeth is so hilariously tone-deaf, it’s a wonder she didn’t die from secondhand embarrassment on the spot.

And then there’s the characters—oh, the characters! Elizabeth Bennet is the prototype for every spunky heroine who ever followed, and Darcy, well, he’s the man you hate to love and love to hate. Austen didn’t just write characters; she crafted icons. Even the secondary characters, like the neurotic Mrs Bennet and the incorrigible Lydia, are sketched with such vividness that they practically leap off the page (or the screen, as the case may be). The subplots, from Jane and Bingley’s saccharine romance to Wickham’s scoundrel antics, all add layers to the story that keep it from being just another ‘will they, won’t they.’

Furthermore, Ms Austen’s writing style is a thing of beauty—elegant without being ostentatious, witty without being frivolous. She masterfully blends dialogue and narrative to create a rhythm that’s as engaging as it is refined. Even the pacing is spot on, with each chapter unfolding like a carefully choreographed dance (with the occasional stumble, of course—this is Regency England, after all).

“In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

My dear fellow humans, is this not the most perfect declaration of affection ever?

However, like any classic, it’s not without its flaws. There’s a certain predictability to the plot—will Lizzy and Darcy end up together? You bet your bonnet they will. And let’s be honest, the endless parade of balls, social visits, and garden walks can feel a bit repetitive. Also, the lack of real-world stakes (no one’s going to die if Lizzy marries Mr Collins, although her dignity might) can make the drama feel a touch overblown.

In the end, though, Pride and Prejudice has earned its place in the pantheon of great literature, not because of the saccharine adaptations but despite them. It’s a brilliant, biting social commentary disguised as a love story, with characters that have become cultural icons. Jane Austen might not have lived to see the full impact of her work, but it’s safe to say that her legacy is secure—even if we have to suffer through a few more zombie mashups along the way.

 So, the next time someone tells you it’s just a romance novel, hit them with this zinger:

“For heaven’s sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be for you to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by so doing!”

Then walk away, head held high, secure in the knowledge that you’ve out-Austen’d them all.