Elizabeth and Darcy and the Undead, Oh My!

Outside, the first storm of the season. Downed trees and power lines, an early dark. Inside, sore throats and Theraflu. All the while, Halloween approaching on black cat feet.

Perfect time for a little zombie talk.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains. Never was this truth more plain than during the recent attacks at Netherfield Park, in which a household of eighteen was slaughtered and consumed by a horde of the living dead.”

Thus begins Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

Not to fear, Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, beloved by generations (and me), is still here; in fact, most of the book is word-for-word identical to the original.* But, as the back cover copy of P&P&Z so eloquently puts it, this “expanded edition” features “all-new scenes of bone-crunching zombie mayhem.” Yowza!

England, it seems, has been struck by a terrible plague. For fifty-five years, a horrific pestilence has infected the dead, animating them into flesh-seeking zombies. If a living person is bitten by a zombie and survives, that person will suffer a slow, slavering descent into zombie-hood.

One of the cleverest things author (or more properly, co-author) Seth Grahame-Smith did was start the zombie plague a couple of generations before the book begins. What this does is drop us into a Regency England torn between timeless British tradition (tea in the afternoon, charming country dances, warring with France) and a harsh new reality of fighting for survival—both one’s own and the country as a whole.

This contrast is highlighted beautifully between the five Bennett girls and their nemeses, the sisters Bingley. Mr. Bennett, acutely aware of the threat a zombie plague poses to England, sent his daughters to China to be tutored in the so-called “deadly arts.” Upon their return, the five sisters took a solemn oath to defend England by killing the undead wherever they may be.

Caroline Bingley and her sister, Mrs. Hurst, on the other hand…well, they hold the attitude you’d pretty much expect, namely, that all this running around slicing off zombies’ heads with one’s favorite katana is a most ungenteel activity for ladies. And sweaty, besides. After all, they've never had to engage in mortal combat with the undead; London, where they live most of the time, is fortified by an enormous, zombie-defying wall. It’s not until the Bingleys move to Netherfield that they find out first-hand what Night of the Living Dead really means.

But Darcy…ah, Darcy. It should come as no surprise that the smoldering, brooding Fitzwilliam is a martial arts master and zombie destroyer extraordinaire. In fact, his only match may be…Elizabeth herself.

Don’t sit there and claim you saw that coming. You’re shocked, admit it.

Events unfold more or less the way they do in the original (they have to, after all, given that most of the text is Austen’s) but there are some delightful surprises along the way. Darcy’s skill is not unique in his family; in fact, it’s rather expected, given that his aunt—yes, the redoubtable Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself—is renowned throughout Britain, yea, even Europe, for her unparalleled deadliness against the manky dreadfuls. Her estate, Rosings Park, gains a few enhancements in P&P&Z that are quite funny—and which add unexpected twists to the conflicts between that formidable lady and the headstrong Elizabeth.

(By the way, new favorite phrase in the house? “Manky dreadfuls.” Calling the dogs: “Get in here, you manky dreadfuls!” Neighbors fighting: “The manky dreadfuls are at it again.” Really, we’ve found very few situations where the term “manky dreadful” isn’t appropriate.)

So is it all horror and hilarity? Well, not quite. By about halfway through the book, the zombie gimmick becomes a one-trick pony. There are only so many ways they can be dismembered, after all. Worse, Grahame-Smith—after doing a decent job of setting the parameters of this altered world—has characters break the rules of that world willy-nilly in an attempt to get more laughs. The chuckles aren’t worth the annoyance that comes with flipping back and forth, saying, “Hey wait a minute…why is she…that makes no sense at all!”

Which raises the question: should you really expect a book that inserts undead monsters into classic literature to make sense?

Why, yes. Yes, you should. Or why go to the trouble of all that world-building to begin with?

I ask you.

Most telling, though, is that when my sweetie read the book, he kept saying, “Listen to this—this is hilarious,” and invariably he’d read me a quote that was pure Austen. Not a zombie in sight.

In sum: Yeah, the zombies are amusing enough. But even after two hundred years, ain’t nobody can match the master. If you’ve never read Austen and are pretty sure you never would without kickass manky dreadful action, then definitely pick it up. On the other hand, if you’re such an Austen purist that the expansion of Margaret’s character in the 1995 film version of Sense and Sensibility offended you mortally, then, for your own sanity, stay far away.

But if you’re an Austen fan who can take some tongue-in-cheek fun with a beloved masterpiece, I say give it a whirl. Be sure you read the author’s notes at the end—for me, they were the funniest part of the whole shebang, and made me (almost) forget all my earlier gripes.

*Having originally been published in 1813, Pride and Prejudice—like all of Austen’s works, not to mention Shakespeare’s, the Brontes, et al—is considered public domain, and thus isn’t protected by copyright law. In other words—have at it.

The Summer of A Suitable Boy

I remember summers not so much by what I did, but by what I read. I read a ton, usually two or three novels going at a time...but almost always, when the summer is over, one will stand out in my memory. There's the summer of The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver. The summer of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, by Susanna Clarke. And then there was the summer I read hardly anything, because I was under a deadline, but every day when I reached the point of brain fry-age, when all original thought had been dredged up and consumed, I watched one of the “Making Of” videos on myLord of the Rings DVDs. There are a lot of them. Then, when I’d seen them all, I watched them again. For some reason, at that point in my life, listening to screenwriters and actors and directors and artists talk in endless detail about story and the creative process and setbacks and breakthroughs was both soothing and inspiring. (Especially since, of course, it was LotR, and you knew it was all going to turn out great in the end.)

This summer has been the summer of A Suitable Boy.

I plucked the book off a bookstore shelf in June. I hadn’t heard of it before, I didn’t know anybody else who’d read it. Entirely impulse. Skimmed the first two pages and was instantly entranced. So what if it had 1,472 more pages after those first two? What else is summer for?

A Suitable Boy is set in 1951 India, just a few years after the country won its independence from Britain. It's about a young woman, Lata, and her family's search to find her "a suitable boy" to marry. (Lata has ideas of her own, of course--and thereupon hangs the tale.) The novel follows four families, at least a dozen major characters, has I don’t even know how many plot threads...and yet the author, Vikram Seth, weaves it all together so beautifully that not once did I confuse characters or storylines. Almost every page is a marvel of storytelling. And, an even more amazing feat—Seth wrapped all those storylines into a beautiful, fitting, and entirely satisfying ending. A Suitable Boy is now one of my favorite all-time books. It’s made the desert-island list, and that’s the highest recommendation I can make. If you love a big, gorgeous family epic, a fictional world you can immerse yourself in for a long, thoroughly enjoyable time, then run do not walk to your nearest bookstore and get you a copy and take it home and dive in.

If you don't think A Suitable Boy will float your boat (hey, no judgement here--I'm one of two people in the entire country who didn't like Cold Mountain) then check out The Chick Manifesto's list of "Top Ten Hopefully Unfamiliar Books," parts one and two. Any list that contains both Rosemary's Baby and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn has to have something for everyone. (Plus they included A Princess Bride, which is another personal desert island pick, and if the island has a DVD player, I'm bringing the movie, too, because this is seriously the best book-to-movie adaptation ever made. Mandy Patinkin, Cary Elwes, Robin Wright (before she was Robin Wright-Penn), the best swordfight in all of moviedom, and the immortal line: "I am Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.")

Compelling characters. Fascinating worlds. Action. Passion. What's not to love?

What Do You Believe?

All my life, I’ve been bothered by the nature of truth. Who gets to say what’s true? And how come, anytime somebody declares something to be True, everybody else starts shouting Untrue! at the top of his or her lungs? Even as a little kid, I reasoned there had to be a way to figure out, once and for all, what was True. And then we could all stop arguing.

No wonder I took to the scientific method like a duck to water. From the very first I learned about it—in sixth grade, I think—the scientific method felt logical and right. As a way to make sense of the world, it…well, it makes sense. It’s simple and elegant and, if followed with integrity, its results are untainted with superstition, personal bias, or emotion. In a twisty world, it’s the straightest ruler we’ve got.

And yet, even the staunchest scientist has beliefs he or she can't explain with the scientific method. And that’s the premise for one of the most fascinating books I’ve read this year: What We Believe But Cannot Prove: Today’s Leading Thinkers on Science in the Age of Certainty. This gem of a book was sent to me by my good friend Walter, and from the first essay, I couldn’t put it down. The essays are short—a few pages, at most—and in each one, a prominent scientist or expert describes something he or she knows to be unproveable, and yet believes to be absolutely, incontrovertibly true. That intelligent life is unique to Earth. That intelligent life is spread throughout the galaxies. That there is life after death. That there isn’t. That God exists. That He doesn’t. That there is an external reality. That nothing exists except our own consciousness.

The essays are fascinating in and of themselves, but what I love best about this book is their tone. The writers may be scientists steeped in the scientific method—logical, rational, show-me kind of folks—but they write with such passion, such optimism and hope, that the book as a whole becomes much more than a collection of random musings. It’s a shout-out of human curiosity, spirit, and endeavor. It’s a distillation of everything contradictory, wonderful, frustrating, and inspiring about the search for truth. It doesn’t exactly have a three-hanky moment—it is written by scientists, after all—but for this geek, it’s the feel-good book of the year.

What do I believe that I cannot prove? That we are not the only sentient beings on this planet. That some animal species are intelligent, feel emotions, and are conscious of themselves as individuals.

What do you believe that you cannot prove?