What would this story have become? What would Austen have wanted to tell us through the world she only begins to create? And why did she decide – ill health aside – that Sanditon wasn’t worth continuing? We can make educated guesses, but ultimately this is a kernel of literary mystery, an uncut diamond, that promised a shift in Austen’s way of thinking of the world, with its slightly more acerbic tone and refreshingly novel setting, but a way of thinking that she clearly felt unable to bring to fruition. This is what makes Sanditon a very interesting reading experience, for the ending is abrupt, on the cusp of the arrival of a new character who, if Austen was planning on staying true to form, would undoubtedly have thrown the lives of the inhabitants of Sanditon into some disarray. Plenty of characters are introduced, but very little plot happens, though much is hinted at, and a seasoned Austenite could hazard a guess at the plans she had for her characters, all of whom possess comfortably familiar traits. However, the advertising of the new BBC adaptation of Sanditon piqued my interest, and then Oxford University Press sent me a copy to review, so, rather guiltily, I allowed my curiosity to overcome my morals and read the remaining fragments of what would have been, if she had survived and decided to continue with it, Jane Austen’s seventh novel.įirst and foremost it must be understood that it truly is a fragment a mere seventy or so pages, made up of twelve short chapters. Therefore, though I love Jane Austen and would be perfectly happy to only read her writing for the rest of my life, I have never delved into her fragments or juvenilia. If they hadn’t wanted to finish it, didn’t think it was good enough to be published, and didn’t put it out there in the world to be read, is it right for us to go against their wishes and introduce it into the public domain? I felt so uncomfortable about the troubling circumstances of Go Tell a Watchman‘s publication a couple of years ago that I couldn’t read it, despite my curiosity. Reading unpublished and unfinished works by an author always makes me feel slightly uncomfortable, as if I’ve been rummaging around amidst their private correspondence or prised open their locked diary.
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