Jane Austen's classic romantic novels have been reproduced in book, film and TV-versions in a regular speed, but new are those which are only loosely inspired by this author, such as Bridget Jone's Diary which uses the themes of the old novel adapting them to the modern times. The most recent one of these books being inspired by Austen's classics is the Karen Joy Fowler's Jane Austen Book Club, which in the end turns out to have little to do with Jane Austen after all.
Before starting this book, I had made sure to have red every single one of Austen's novels to make quite sure I was going to be able to take the most out of the clever dialogue and speculation this novel must hold. Finally, very excited I opened the book, ready to dive into the world where the thoughts and passions over my favourite romantic stories were shared. But it didn't take very long to realize that no such satisfaction was to be got from this book.
Jane Austen Book Club describes the life of five women and one man, who form a book club to bring inspiration to their lives, each hosting a meeting where one of Austen's six novels is discussed. The characters are rather interesting personalities each one of them; or at least the author tries very hard to create that impression. The problems with their life; family, career and love life are numerous and depth is tried to get by adding flashbacks to their childhood and adolescence. Sadly enough, these flashbacks serve the purpose poorly because they merely tend to confuse reader because if the seemingly random placing and exhausting length. After all, the reader who picks up this novel is likely to be interested mainly on what these people have to say about Austen, not about all the tragedies of their past life. And finally, they don't have that much to say; in their meetings they are treated with delicious snacks and wine, but what they have to say about the novelist, is forgotten under the fussing over dogs, over one member's fresh divorce or the accidents her gay daughter gets in her extreme hobbies. And the shy participation of their only male member is rolled over by the elitist condescension of the women who think they know Austen so well but who, in they eyes of the reader, have real trouble in expressing their discerning observations. I must argue that the author simply uses Jane Austen's name to sell her story about the confusing lives of her characters.
One more weakness of this novel is the language. The reader is likely to have a chance to enjoy at least some of Austen's books and therefore experience her clever storytelling and witty sarcasm and this naturally brings some expectations and comparison into reading. Maybe because of this it is so disappointing to read text which is brimming over with grammatical and structural mistakes and poor storytelling. Simply enjoying this book is made very difficult but I guess something in this good must have been right because I kept on reading till the end.
