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A review by maggie_sotos
Mansfield Park by Jane Austen
2.0
UGH. I mean, with all due respect to Miss Austen, UGH. Getting through this book was like knawing through a chunk of cement. The writing style is so blocky, and yet also so headache-enducingly painful. If 'Persuasion' is Austen at her cleanest, most succinct and most romantic, 'Mansfield Park' must be Austen at her sloppiest, most long-winded and weirdest.
Let's break this down into a few points: 1. Fanny is the original Debbie Downer. She cries about everything, and is both pitiful and spongelike. What an odd choice of protagonist when so many other of Austen's heroines are just so much more interesting. Fanny Price has the charisma of a wet towel someone has left on the bed overnight. I get that she is the model of propriety amidst an island of misfit toy asshole characters, but still -- if this is the hero I'm supposed to root for…God help me.
2. Edmund. Let's talk about what a toolbox Edmund is. He never really says, "Hey sorry I was a smug, pressuring d-bag and tried to nag you into marrying Henry. You were right, that guy was a complete ass. I'm glad you held your ground and kept refusing his proposals of marriage, even when ALL OF US PEER PRESSURED YOU INTO DOING IT". Also, the relationship between him and Fanny is borderline incestuous since they are cousins that have been raised as siblings (the cousins part I could forgive, but the siblings part is…yech.) And the fact that Edmund only kind of sees Fanny as a possible love interest in the last two seconds of the book feels like a throwaway plot point. She's absolutely a consolation prize thrown in at the 11th hour, mostly because all the other women in the story are either Edmund's biological sisters or they're Mary Crawford, who's a crazy b*tch. So, when there is nothing better around, go for Fanny.
3. The novel is strangely paced. About 60% of the time, the plots unfold at the speed of smell, with extremely long and meandering conversations (if I ever had to be in the same room as Mary Crawford in real life I think I'd Vincent van Gogh myself and voluntarily remove my own ears to avoid listening to her talk). Then, as if realizing she still has a great deal of plot points to wrap up, Austen crashes her way through the last 2 chapters at break-neck speed, making the last fifteen pages of the book more or less feel like you're reading word diarrhea.
Jane Austen is a better writer than I am, and will ever be. I am in no way dismissing her as one of the most brilliant minds in literature. But JAYSUS this book was horrible and I hated it and I would not wish it on my worst enemy.
Let's break this down into a few points: 1. Fanny is the original Debbie Downer. She cries about everything, and is both pitiful and spongelike. What an odd choice of protagonist when so many other of Austen's heroines are just so much more interesting. Fanny Price has the charisma of a wet towel someone has left on the bed overnight. I get that she is the model of propriety amidst an island of misfit toy asshole characters, but still -- if this is the hero I'm supposed to root for…God help me.
2. Edmund. Let's talk about what a toolbox Edmund is. He never really says, "Hey sorry I was a smug, pressuring d-bag and tried to nag you into marrying Henry. You were right, that guy was a complete ass. I'm glad you held your ground and kept refusing his proposals of marriage, even when ALL OF US PEER PRESSURED YOU INTO DOING IT". Also, the relationship between him and Fanny is borderline incestuous since they are cousins that have been raised as siblings (the cousins part I could forgive, but the siblings part is…yech.) And the fact that Edmund only kind of sees Fanny as a possible love interest in the last two seconds of the book feels like a throwaway plot point. She's absolutely a consolation prize thrown in at the 11th hour, mostly because all the other women in the story are either Edmund's biological sisters or they're Mary Crawford, who's a crazy b*tch. So, when there is nothing better around, go for Fanny.
3. The novel is strangely paced. About 60% of the time, the plots unfold at the speed of smell, with extremely long and meandering conversations (if I ever had to be in the same room as Mary Crawford in real life I think I'd Vincent van Gogh myself and voluntarily remove my own ears to avoid listening to her talk). Then, as if realizing she still has a great deal of plot points to wrap up, Austen crashes her way through the last 2 chapters at break-neck speed, making the last fifteen pages of the book more or less feel like you're reading word diarrhea.
Jane Austen is a better writer than I am, and will ever be. I am in no way dismissing her as one of the most brilliant minds in literature. But JAYSUS this book was horrible and I hated it and I would not wish it on my worst enemy.