Let's Kill Jane Austen

Can't say I've ever contemplated murder before, but then again I never contemplated the dangers of a "sivilized" life until I read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and now it seems Mark Twain has got me thinking again. I recently came upon this quote by Twain: "It seems a great pity that they allowed her to die a natural death." The "her" here is none other than Jane Austen.

Now I am no Twain scholar, and I can't say if this is a context quote, spoken by a character in one of his novels or stories, but I'd like to think it came from the heart. Not because I despise Austen or truly wish her dead (an easy enough statement, I guess, seeing that she has indeed been [naturally] dead for nearly two centuries), but because I love Twain's candor and I find this particular sentence so wonderful. "It seems a great pity" sets you up perfectly for the wham bam at the end of the sentence. Understatement perfection.

As I said, I have nothing really against Jane. I've read and taught Pride and Prejudice several times, and it's a fine book and a delight to teach, especially to girls. Fine book, not the be all and end all as some people seem to claim. I've vented my rage before at the proliferation of P&P sequels and spinoffs and other Austen-themed "literature." Enough already. But brace yourself: the 200th anniversary of the publication of her great novels and of her death are coming up in the next few years. Something tells me the Austen flood is not even close to cresting anytime soon. Now there are even zombie and vampire books concerning Mr. Darcy et al. So, not so much because of Jane the person (by all accounts a fine woman) but because of Jane the Influence, I hereby mark, with the obvious blessing of Mark Twain, Jane Austen for death, by murder.

The textbooks all say that a true murder requires three things: motive, opportunity, and means. I believe the motive is clear (Jane Austen must die for the sins of her Influence on the unimaginative, push-button world of 21st Century popular fiction; hell, with the proper non-uptown jury, I just might be acquited), the opportunity is now within my reach (after years of secreting vats of elbow grease, the girls in the R&D wing of spitouyourgum assure me they're tweaked out--the time machine is ready; though I have made the decision to bring Jane here rather than for me to go back to early 19th Century England--mainly because britches and me don't mix), and after careful consideration, I've decided on the means. I am not a violent man; I realize that coming from somebody confessing his murderous intents before the deed is done, this sounds doubly absurd, but it's true. No gruesome death for Jane, I can assure you. At first I mulled the possibility of using George Carlin's recipe for the perfect murder: lift one person up by the ankles and use that person to clobber another person ("two dead bodies, no murder weapon; police sift for clues") and while the thought of clobbering Jane Austen with, oh, for example, Gertrude Stein, Rush Limbaugh, Henry James, or Martha Stewart certainly gets the old endorphins high-fiving each other, I worry about my chronically bad back. Then I came up with the even more perfect--and certainly more literary apt--means: death by induced/provoked suicide, or, um suicide by persuasion.

It's really quite simple, I think. Fire up the time machine for a quick jaunt to England circa 1810 (just before Jane begins her amazing run of churning out literary masterpieces fine novels, thus eliminating all of her horrible influence) and whisk Jane back to 2010 with the promise of a world without chamber pots and with a seemingly unlimited supply of pasteurized milk (Google "Jane Austen, bovine tuberculosis" for the connection). I believe that with the proper "touring guide" she'll be writing one of her heartfelt letters to one Dr. Jack Kevorkian within a fortnight.

I'll begin our tour with a tea party, as in a Tea Party, a thronging gathering of blood-thirsty rabid anti-government refuseniks. That should roil Ms. Austen's apolitical sense and sensibilities a bit. Then, while plying her with a steady diet of pasteurized milk and microwaveable scones, I'll take her to any dance club in any major American city. Next we'll plop down in front of the television for a marathon session of channel surfing through episodes of Wife Swap, MTV Teen Cribs, The Bachelor, Deal or No Deal, various Housewives reality shows, Everybody Loves Raymond, and VH1 Classic's That Metal Show, to name a few. After a couple days zoning out in front of the boob tube, I'll take her to a chain bookstore where first I'll have her peruse People, US, In Touch Weekly, and OK!, then I'll turn her loose on the inevitable table of all things Austen-ized. Then we'll repair back to my manse, via some public transportation, for a night of video games and cooking up some yummo Rachel Ray meals. By morning, I am sure, if she doesn't coo softly in my ear, "You'd look great in britches, Mr. Spitoutyourgum. Let's ditch this world for mine. Um, bring some of that milk along, though, will you?" then she'll be holding a salad fork to my face and demanding where I keep the valium. At which time, it's time for the coup de grace: I throw her my dog-eared copy of the P&P Cliff Notes and ask her if she could clarify a few things for me. Then I just step back and await the results from the morgue. If 2010 America doesn't do in Jane Austen, she's a more amazing woman than I've ever given her credit for. In which case, I'm hunting Twain down.