The first 500 pages: Before there was Larry David, who got famous for writing stories about nothing, there was Jane Austen. It was like time was still, with nothing to report on for months on end. It really must have been nice to be the child of a wealthy European person in the 1800s. Their problems were trivial and emotions juvenile, and nearly everyone is unlikable.
The last chapter: Night and day from what I just described. Very odd; everything from the writing style, to perspective, to pace was entirely separate from the rest of the book. It almost seemed like someone had put a gun to Austen's head and told her to just sum it up or else. Austen speeds through months within a matter of pages (what would have taken her hundreds if not more pages previously), and skips through what one would have presumed to be the ultimate climax as if it were a trifle.
It seemed like the author was learning how to write throughout the entirety of the book, getting into the groove in the middle, but then realizing she had taken up all of her pages in the beginning and finally giving up and rushing through the ending. I really do not give much credit to Jane Austen. I don't understand why she is given so much praise; her female protagonists are often silly and mindless and it's very hard for me to connect with them. I can only imagine that her life reflected that of all of her characters', and that her own life must have been a very dull one indeed.
