YAY, another Austen book. Except NOT REALLY, because Emma (you know, the Emma that the book is named for) falls several units lower than Elizabeth Bennet on the Scale of Awesome.
Emma is one of those Snobby Snobbish Snobs who just snob around town all day because of their insuppressible snobbery. She is also smart, attractive, rich, and meddlesome. But rather than getting any real comeuppance besides being wrong, wrong, wrong about everything, like all the time, Emma gets exactly what she wants. And what Emma wants, apparently, is to marry a 37-year-old who relentlessly criticizes her totally obvious flaws.
Everything else about this book is fine, I guess.
Is It One of the Greatest Books of All Time?
Literally ANY other Jane Austen book would have gotten a yes from me, but I can only give this one a meh.
Better be without sense than misapply it.
Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common.
I would much rather have been merry than wise.
Of all horrid things leave-taking is the worst.
I do suspect that he is not really necessary to my happiness.
I am quite enough in love. I should be sorry to be more.