I think Jane Austen wrote about me. No, I’m not off my meds, and yes, I realize that dear Jane has been dead for almost two hundred years (and no, I’m not that old). Nonetheless, in my narcissistic view, I am Elizabeth Bennet .
The wonderful thing about Jane Austen’s characters is that I’m not alone. Millions of women have turned the last page of Pride and Prejudice sighed, and wondered “when will my Darcy come?” I believe that’s more than a wish for the perfect gentleman (and don’t get me started on whether Darcy was actually a gentleman!); I believe it’s an affirmation that the reader has become so enamored of Elizabeth that she sees herself as Elizabeth. Who doesn’t want to believe that they are pretty, witty, and saucy enough to knock the stockings off the hottest catch in town?
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