What makes a good screen adaptation?

I have seen 7 screen adaptations of Anna Karenina. That probably tells you I’m a bit mad. But as a lover of literature and cinema, I’m also fascinated by adaptations—what makes a good one? 

Let’s start with Anna Karenina. Among the 7 versions I have seen, the best is without doubt the 1977 series by the BBC, with Nicola Pagett. We all know filmmakers have to make cuts, we all know filmmakers have to simplify the story, but the problem with most adaptations of Anna Karenina is that they don’t convey the complexity of the characters—Karenin in early adaptations tends to be portrayed as a monster whereas Karenin in some later adaptations is portrayed more sympathetically, with Anna and Vronsky presented as shallow and selfish—the 1977 series is the only one which depicts the complexity and self-contradictions and multiple facets of Anna, Karenin, and Vronsky; the only one which reminds me of the qualities for which I love Tolstoy’s novel. 

If we talk about War and Peace, Bondarchuk’s film series from 1966-1967 is popular, but I would argue that it only focuses on the epic-ness of the book. It is technically spectacular but shallow and hollow, stripping the story of depth and complexity, removing Tolstoy’s philosophical and religious ideas, reducing Pierre’s search for meaning, simplifying the “thinking characters” (Pierre and Andrei), paying little attention to emotional conflicts between characters, etc. The 1972 series by the BBC, though imperfect, shows a much better understanding of Tolstoy’s characters and ideas, and respect for the text. 

This doesn’t mean I think only faithful adaptations are worthwhile, doesn’t mean I think filmmakers have to be slaves to the sources. When I complain about film adaptations, people sometimes accuse me of being a purist, but I’m not. I find it fascinating when a classic story is moved to a different setting, a different culture: the story of Dangerous Liaisons for instance is moved from 18th century France to feudal Korea in Untold Scandal, and modern-day America in Cruel Intentions; Fingersmith, set in the Victorian era, is adapted into South Korean film The Handmaiden. 

Sometimes it doesn’t work quite well: Bride and Prejudice does a few clever things, moving the story of Pride and Prejudice to modern-day India and making Mr Darcy American, and it’s fun enough, but it doesn’t have the sense of urgency of Jane Austen’s novel, either in the sisters getting married or in the Wickham sub-plot; the Mrs Bennet character is therefore just vulgar and annoying; and Lalita (the equivalent of Elizabeth Bennet) comes across as nationalistic and more confrontational than witty, which gets tiresome after a while. But sometimes it works wonders: in Ran and Arashi ga oka, Kurosawa and Yoshida take King Lear and Wuthering Heights respectively as a starting point, and create something different, something very Japanese, something that stands on their own. As I wrote in a recent blog post about Wuthering Heights, Arashi ga oka is its own thing—Onimaru is not Heathcliff; Kinu is not Catherine; Hidemaru is not Hindley; Mitsuhiko is not Edgar Linton; Tae is not Isabella; Yoshimaru is not Hareton; young Kinu is not Cathy—the characters can be mapped onto Emily Bronte’s characters but they are different and their relationships are different. And yet it captures the violence, savagery, eroticism, and strangeness of Emily Bronte’s novel, which the supposedly faithful adaptations of Wuthering Heights don’t do, as most adaptations only focus on the love story, reduce the malice and brutality, and often cut the second generation.

A similar example is Clueless: loosely based on Emma and set in an American high school, it is its own thing, loved by both Jane Austen’s fans and people who have no idea it’s inspired by a 19th century novel; yet at the same time, Amy Heckerling captures the essence of Austen’s novel much better than some supposedly faithful adaptations do. What I mean is that Emma might be snobbish, she might misperceive everything, she might make a mess of people’s lives, but she means well and wants to do good and has self-reflection—we also see this in Cher in Clueless, whereas Anya Taylor-Joy and especially Gwyneth Paltrow portray Emma as bitchy, catty, even two-faced, nothing like Austen’s character. 

The trouble is that most screen adaptations are not faithful adaptations which take the text seriously and show great understanding of the source story (such as the 1995 Pride and Prejudice); but they are also not interesting adaptations which take the novel as a starting point and become their own work of art (such as Jan Švankmajer’s Alice). Most adaptations are usually somewhere in the middle. 

Take for example the 2005 Pride and Prejudice: it doesn’t transcend its source material and become its own thing; what we have instead is a film which focuses on the attraction and romance but neglects the theme of pride and prejudice, and the development of Elizabeth and Mr Darcy; Matthew Macfadyen’s Darcy doesn’t show much change throughout the story; and Keira Knightley’s Elizabeth often behaves out of character (can you imagine Jane Austen’s Elizabeth eavesdropping on her family members then bursting in on them? Or watching Georgina behind a door then running away like an intruder, with no manners? Or snatching a letter from her father’s hand?).

Or, take the 1999 Mansfield Park: it takes liberties but doesn’t become an original work of art; it’s just an awkward adaptation by someone who doesn’t accept Fanny Price as written by Jane Austen and turns her into something else, and has her accepting Henry Crawford at first, going against the text.

The 2022 Persuasion also seems to be an odd thing that is neither approach: perhaps I shouldn’t comment as I haven’t seen the whole film, but from what I have seen, it is neither a faithful adaptation, depicting the Regency era, nor an independent film with the story moved to the modern era; instead, Carrie Cracknell has characters of different skin colours wearing Regency costumes but speaking modern slang, and changes the character of Anne Elliot beyond recognition (it is perhaps aimed at the audience of Bridgerton).

And this is something lots of people don’t seem to understand: whenever someone criticises a film adaptation for misrepresenting or betraying the text, some people just say fidelity is unimportant and the film is its own work of art, but most of the time it isn’t—most of the time it doesn’t have enough strengths and originality, most of the time it doesn’t transcend its source material—all we’ve got is just a poor film that doesn’t quite transfer a great work of art onto the screen. 

10 favourite adaptations of literary works (in chronological order): 

• Rebecca (1940) 
• The Innocents (1961), from The Turn of the Screw 
• Tom Jones (1963) 
• Woman in the Dunes (1964) 
• Anna Karenina (1977) 
• Ran (1985), from King Lear 
• Arashi ga oka (1988), from Wuthering Heights 
• Alice (1988), from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland 
• The Age of Innocence (1993)
• Pride and Prejudice (1995) 

2009 series and 1988 film—the most interesting Wuthering Heights adaptation is Japanese

I don’t know what possessed me, but yesterday I saw two different adaptations of Wuthering Heights: Arashi ga oka (1988) from Japan, and the 2009 TV series featuring Tom Hardy. 

There isn’t much to say about the 2009 series. There are changes. One of the main changes is that they remove the character of Lockwood and change the structure, starting with the removal of Linton Heathcliff to Wuthering Heights, and young Cathy’s first meeting with Heathcliff, which means that we see the revenge on the second generation before knowing who they are and how they relate to each other. Could that be an interesting choice? Perhaps, but I don’t think it works very well. 

Another fault is what I see as a carelessness about the ages of the characters: the introduction of Catherine to the Lintons and the incident of the bulldog should take place in their early teens, we see them differently when they are adults; we need to see time pass between Catherine’s introduction to the Lintons and the marriage proposal, to see Heathcliff find Catherine slowly drifting apart from him; the series also doesn’t mark very well the 17-year gap, as the characters barely look any older.

The worst change is the ending with Heathcliff—I shall be a good girl and not spoil it for those who want to see the series, but I’m sure you would agree. But overall, it’s quite a forgettable adaptation: the series makes more explicit the incest idea but does nothing with it; Tom Hardy and Charlotte Riley have more chemistry than Kay Adshead and Ken Hutchison (in the otherwise commendable 1978 series), but as we see in most adaptations, much brutality is removed, Catherine is defanged, and it doesn’t have the strangeness and savagery of the novel.

Arashi ga oka has a much more interesting approach. As Kurosawa creates Throne of Blood out of Macbeth and Ran out of King Lear, Yoshishige Yoshida takes Emily Bronte’s novel as a starting point and creates something different, something very Japanese. In Wuthering Heights, Heathcliff’s method of revenge hinges on 18th century English property, inheritance, and marriage laws; all this has to change when Yoshida adapts the story for feudal Japan. The characters are different—Onimaru is not Heathcliff; Kinu is not Catherine; Hidemaru is not Hindley; Mitsuhiko is not Edgar Linton; Tae is not Isabella; Yoshimaru is not Hareton; young Kinu is not Cathy—the characters can be mapped onto Emily Bronte’s characters but they are different and their relationships are different. For instance, Kinu marries Mitsuhiko not because marrying Onimaru would bring her disgrace and she wants to be rich, but because, according to custom, she would have to become a priestess and leave the mountain, and marrying him is her only way to escape that fate. The relationship between Kinu and Mitsuhiko is therefore changed, and Onimaru’s method of revenge is not the same. 

One may complain that Kinu (the equivalent of Catherine) is defanged and she doesn’t quite match the wildness and savagery of Onimaru, but as I said, Yoshida only uses Wuthering Heights as a starting point and creates a work of art of his own. Arashi ga oka is very Japanese—even the acting seems to bear the influence of Noh theatre. And yet, when I think about it, Arashi ga oka has the violence, savagery, eroticism, and strangeness of the novel; and Onimaru has the brutishness, ferocity, and viciousness of Heathcliff; he even seems demonic. 

I can see why many people think Arashi ga oka is the best adaptation of Wuthering Heights. If you want a faithful adaptation, this won’t be for you. But if you want a film that stands on its own and at the same time does capture the strangeness, brutality, and eroticism of Emily Bronte’s novel, this is the film to watch. There is something elemental about it. 

I will also add that Arashi ga oka is very visually striking and well-framed. Even if you don’t like the film as a whole, you would love the cinematography. 

Strongly recommend.

Wuthering Heights (1978) and the difficulty of adapting Emily Bronte’s novel

Anyone who loves Wuthering Heights has long recognised the difficulty, if not the impossibility, of adapting it (properly) for the screen. There is something about it that resists adaptation. My friend Himadri says “There seems something so wild & elemental in the novel. And as soon as you flesh it out with actors and with real locations, it all comes down to earth with a bump. There’s a sense of terror running through the novel that no adaptation seems able to capture.” 

Since the Laurence Olivier – Merle Oberon film in 1939, filmmakers have had a long tradition of reducing the savagery and brutality, cutting away the second half, and turning Wuthering Heights into a romance. Over and over again, I have come across people who come to Wuthering Heights expecting a passionate love story, clearly because of pop culture and all these film adaptations, and getting shocked by the emotional violence and the detestable characters in the book. So I came to the 1978 TV series with great expectations, having read that it’s the most faithful to the novel, and noticed that it’s made by the BBC one year after they gave us the best adaptation of Anna Karenina (Caroline Langrishe, who plays Kitty in Anna Karenina, here plays Isabella).

As it turns out, the 1978 has the opposite problem: the cruelty is there, the violence is there, the hate is there—but where is the love, the passion? I don’t see the chemistry, the passion between Catherine and Heathcliff. The problem is not Kay Adshead, who I think is the best Catherine I’ve seen—she depicts the selfishness, the wayward personality and fiery temper of Catherine, but she also has charm—you can see why Heathcliff is obsessed with her and you can see why Edgar Linton is drawn to her wild, intense personality. But Ken Hutchison is not quite Heathcliff. He rants, he screams, but I don’t quite see the passion from inside. I don’t see any chemistry between him and Catherine. I don’t see what Catherine and Isabella see in him. Wuthering Heights may be a story of abuse and hate, but the love story between Heathcliff and Catherine is important—even if it’s a tortured, obsessive, and destructive kind of love that destroys everything in its path, there is love—we need to see that love, that passion between Heathcliff and Catherine, and I think the series doesn’t show that. And it’s not just Catherine. To put it perhaps a bit crudely, Heathcliff should be hot—he is savage, vengeful, a monster even, but he should be hot—Catherine may think “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same”, but Isabella doesn’t have that and we must understand why she is attracted to him, against reason, against Catherine’s warning, against Edgar’s protest. 

But this is why it’s so hard, if not impossible, to adapt Wuthering Heights: filmmakers usually reduce the ruthlessness and viciousness so that Heathcliff can be a romantic figure; the 1978 series swings too far the other way.

As for the rest of the cast, I like Maria Swailes as the young Catherine Earnshaw, David Robb as Edgar, and Caroline Langrishe as Isabella; Pat Heywood is a different interpretation of Nelly Dean, playing her as a good, reliable housekeeper (not quite my interpretation), but she is very good; the only one I really don’t like, apart from Ken Hutchison as Heathcliff, is Richard Kay as Mr Lockwood, who has a melodramatic way of acting that takes me out of the story. 

Is this worth watching? I think it is. You might disagree with my views on Ken Hutchison’s performance, and this is an adaptation that takes seriously the dark and brutal side of the characters. 

Wuthering Heights: what race is Heathcliff?

As my previous blog post was about race and “diverse casting” in period dramas, let’s talk about Heathcliff: what is his race/ ethnicity?

This is how Heathcliff is described by Mr Lockwood, a stranger and the first narrator of Wuthering Heights: 

“He is a dark-skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman: that is, as much a gentleman as many a country squire: rather slovenly, perhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence, because he has an erect and handsome figure; and rather morose.” (ch.1)

When Heathcliff returns after a three years’ absence, Nelly Dean also describes him as having “dark face and hair” (ch.10). The word “gipsy” appears 6 times throughout the novel—said by Mr Lockwood, Mrs Earnshaw, Hindley, Mrs Linton, Joseph, and Edgar Linton—6 different characters. Some of these characters however also use different terms throughout the story. 

In one scene, to cheer up little Heathcliff, Nelly Dean says: 

““A good heart will help you to a bonny face, my lad,” I continued, “if you were a regular black; and a bad one will turn the bonniest into something worse than ugly. And now that we’ve done washing, and combing, and sulking—tell me whether you don’t think yourself rather handsome? I’ll tell you, I do. You’re fit for a prince in disguise. Who knows but your father was Emperor of China, and your mother an Indian queen, each of them able to buy up, with one week’s income, Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange together? And you were kidnapped by wicked sailors and brought to England. Were I in your place, I would frame high notions of my birth; and the thoughts of what I was should give me courage and dignity to support the oppressions of a little farmer!”” (ch.7) 

I have come across some readers who naively think this means Heathcliff is half Indian half Chinese, but all this means is that Nelly Dean—and therefore we—cannot tell Heathcliff’s parentage and origin. It might mean that she doesn’t know what Indian and Chinese people look like (who look too different to be mixed up); or we can read that speech as Nelly Dean babbling some nonsense to cheer up an upset child. 

Emily Bronte complicates matters. Mrs Linton for example says: 

“I declare he is that strange acquisition my late neighbour made, in his journey to Liverpool—a little Lascar, or an American or Spanish castaway.” (ch.6) 

The term “Lascar” is used for sailors from India or South Asia. 

All these different terms mean that Heathcliff is racially ambiguous, and that it’s Emily Bronte’s intention that his ethnicity is uncertain—the main point is that he is clearly an outsider—he is an outside force that brings destruction upon the Earnshaw family (and the Linton family) and harmony is restored only when he’s gone. I don’t think Heathcliff is simply a white guy with darker skin and dark hair, like Italian or Spanish; but I also don’t think he’s black, as depicted in the 2011 film, because he would be called a “mulatto” and there would be no ambiguity. My guess is that Heathcliff is mixed race—his father is Mr Earnshaw and his mother is either “Gypsy” or Indian. If we look at the cast of the 2026 film, Heathcliff in my head would not look like Jacob Elordi but perhaps more like Shazad Latif, an actor of mixed English, Scottish, and Pakistani descent, who for some odd reason is cast as the pale and blond Edgar Linton. 

I would say though that Heathcliff’s racial ambiguity is important and Emily Bronte can maintain and emphasise the uncertainty because this is a novel—a screen adaptation has to commit to one interpretation or another—I personally think Heathcliff is mixed race. 

What do you think? 

Wuthering Heights: “people can have many cousins and of all sorts”

One of the funny things Emily Bronte does in Wuthering Heights is that, instead of writing from the third-person point of view, she creates two first-person narrators and the first one—Mr Lockwood—knows nothing and makes the wrong assumptions about everyone and everything he sees. 

““And who is that Earnshaw: Hareton Earnshaw, who lives with Mr Heathcliff? Are they relations?”

“No; he is the late Mrs Linton’s nephew.”

“The young lady’s cousin, then?”

“Yes; and her husband was her cousin also: one on the mother’s, the other on the father’s side: Heathcliff married Mr Linton’s sister.”” (ch.4) 

That must be confusing to a first-time reader. It probably doesn’t help that we have a Heathcliff; an Edgar Linton; a Linton Heathcliff; a Catherine Earnshaw (called Cathy by Heathcliff), who becomes Mrs Catherine Linton; a Catherine Linton (generally called Cathy), who later becomes Mrs Catherine Heathcliff then Mrs Catherine Earnshaw; etc. Let’s shuffle the names for a laugh, why not. 

Nicole of Bibliographing had a very good blog post, years ago, about the circling of the names. But right now, I’d like to focus on the relations between the characters—the cousins. 

““Softly, Miss,” answered the addressed. “You’ll lose nothing by being civil. Though Mr Hareton, there, be not the master’s son, he’s your cousin: and I was never hired to serve you.”

“He my cousin!” cried Cathy, with a scornful laugh.

“Yes, indeed,” responded her reprover.

“Oh, Ellen! don’t let them say such things,” she pursued in great trouble. “Papa is gone to fetch my cousin from London: my cousin is a gentleman’s son. That my—” she stopped, and wept outright; upset at the bare notion of relationship with such a clown.

“Hush, hush!” I whispered; “people can have many cousins and of all sorts, Miss Cathy, without being any the worse for it; only they needn’t keep their company, if they be disagreeable and bad.”

“He’s not—he’s not my cousin, Ellen!” she went on, gathering fresh grief from reflection, and flinging herself into my arms for refuge from the idea.” (ch.18) 

For consistency, I have been referring to the elder Catherine as Catherine, and her daughter as Cathy. 

Look at it: Cathy gets married twice; the first time to Linton Heathcliff, her father’s nephew; the second time to Hareton Earnshaw, her mother’s nephew. First cousins both times! (though perhaps less gross than Fanny Price and Edmund Bertram in Mansfield Park—if we look at it with modern eyes—as they didn’t grow up together). 

Everything is even more disturbing if we consider the possibility that Heathcliff and Catherine are half-siblings. Consider the facts. One day Mr Earnshaw announces he’s going to Liverpool—for what? he doesn’t say, or at least Nelly Dean only says the time is the beginning of harvest—and comes home 3 days later with a boy.  

“… a tale of his seeing it starving, and houseless, and as good as dumb, in the streets of Liverpool, where he picked it up and inquired for its owner. Not a soul knew to whom it belonged, he said; and his money and time being both limited, he thought it better to take it home with him at once, than run into vain expenses there: because he was determined he would not leave it as he found it. Well, the conclusion was, that my mistress grumbled herself calm; and Mr Earnshaw told me to wash it, and give it clean things, and let it sleep with the children.” (ch.4) 

I think we can all be sure that there were many “starving, and houseless” kids on the streets of Liverpool at the time—why does Mr Earnshaw bring home this one?  

“He took to Heathcliff strangely, believing all he said (for that matter, he said precious little, and generally the truth), and petting him up far above Cathy, who was too mischievous and wayward for a favourite.

So, from the very beginning, he bred bad feeling in the house; and at Mrs Earnshaw’s death, which happened in less than two years after, the young master had learned to regard his father as an oppressor rather than a friend, and Heathcliff as a usurper of his parent’s affections and his privileges; and he grew bitter with brooding over these injuries.” (ibid.)

This is very different from the case of Tom Jones, found in the house of Squire Allworthy as a baby. It’s also difficult to explain the partiality Mr Earnshaw has for Heathcliff—Nelly uses the words “favourite” and “partiality”—as Heathcliff doesn’t quite have the charisma, the lovable qualities of Tom Jones. 

If Heathcliff is indeed Mr Earnshaw’s illegitimate child, which I think is highly possible, Wuthering Heights is a story of incest, of love between half-siblings. As Catherine says: 

“… Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton’s is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire.” (ch.9) 

Maybe you think that because you and he have the same father, Catherine! 

And if this is the case, Cathy and Linton would be even closer than first cousins, sharing three grandparents! 

Crazy book.

Wuthering Heights: “I own I did not like her, after infancy was past”

One common complaint about Wuthering Heights, which I have always found strange, is that the characters are all detestable. True, but it doesn’t bother me. When I read a novel, only two things matter:

• 1/ Are the characters well-delineated? Are they alive (within the world of the novel)?
• 2/ Is the author good at what she’s doing—what she has set out to do? Do I like the author? 

The characters of Wuthering Heights, generally speaking, are various shades of unpleasantness, but they’re very much alive. They feel, they love, they hate, they change and grow. 

Now when I reread Wuthering Heights, I love it even more as I see things previously missed, and see the characters differently. Nelly Dean is no longer a sane, sensible, trustworthy housekeeper—she is judgemental, manipulative, unreliable—she takes part in the bullying of Heathcliff as a child, meddles in others’ affairs, causes the rift between Heathcliff and Catherine, provokes Catherine in front of Edgar Linton, neglects Cathy in Edgar Linton’s absence (and gives her the chance to sneak off to Wuthering Heights), and so on. Heathcliff is one of the most brutal and vengeful characters in fiction and perhaps there’s always been some savagery in him, but at the same time Emily Bronte lets us see what years of prejudice, hate, and injustice do to a person—as Shakespeare does with the character of Shylock—and part of the art of Wuthering Heights is in the depiction of a villainous character from the perspective of someone who dislikes and despises him from the start and perhaps has contributed to that villainy. I think there’s also some envy in that hostility, as Heathcliff is an outsider brought into the house and getting preferential treatment from Mr Earnshaw, whereas Nelly Dean is a servant and forever a servant. 

I also see Hindley Earnshaw differently. He has treated Heathcliff abominably, he has been a bully, but is his hatred of Heathcliff not understandable? From the start, the appearance of Heathcliff in the house goes together with the present he wanted that got broken. The new boy, with unknown parentage, also usurps his place and gets special treatment from his father. It is no wonder that Hindley is angry for years, and puts Heathcliff “in his place” after the death of Mr Earnshaw. As he becomes self-destructive after the loss of his life and drinks himself to death, neglecting his own son, I can’t help seeing him as a tragic figure. 

Linton Heathcliff is another character that I now see differently. 

“I divined, from this account, that utter lack of sympathy had rendered young Heathcliff selfish and disagreeable, if he were not so originally; and my interest in him, consequently, decayed: though still I was moved with a sense of grief at his lot, and a wish that he had been left with us.” (ch.21) 

I remember last time feeling irritated by his peevishness, pettiness, and self-absorption, and disliking his contemptuous attitude towards Hareton Earnshaw. 

“… the boy finding animation enough while discussing Hareton’s faults and deficiencies, and relating anecdotes of his goings on; and the girl relishing his pert and spiteful sayings, without considering the ill-nature they evinced. I began to dislike, more than to compassionate Linton, and to excuse his father in some measure for holding him cheap.” (ibid.)

But this time I just feel sorry for Linton, so ill and weak, so cruelly used by his own father. So bent on revenge, Heathcliff has no love or concern for anyone else, bullying his own son and calling Linton “a pitiful, shuffling, worthless thing”. 

“Linton here started from his slumber in bewildered terror, and asked if any one had called his name.

“No,” said Catherine; “unless in dreams. I cannot conceive how you manage to doze out of doors, in the morning.”

“I thought I heard my father,” he gasped, glancing up to the frowning nab above us. “You are sure nobody spoke?”” (ch.26) 

Why did I, in my first reading, not notice how pathetic and terrified he was? 

This is a masterful novel. Emily Bronte is a great writer, I love her prose, and I suppose one of the reasons I like her is that, even though she depicts some selfish and terrible characters, hers is not a bleak, misanthropic view of humanity: Wuthering Heights is about the cycle of hate and violence, but love and compassion break that cycle. 

Wuthering Heights: “who would have thought you were born in one year?”

1/ One trouble with screen adaptations is that you form a mental image of a character because of various actors, only to return to the book and realise that the character is much younger. Mr Collins in Pride and Prejudice for example is only 25. Colonel Brandon in Sense and Sensibility is only 35. So I have been rereading Wuthering Heights, and realised that the characters are younger than I remembered. 

Heathcliff and Catherine grow up together. In the latest (travesty of a) film, they’re portrayed by 28-year-old Jacob Elordi and 35-year-old Margot Robbie, but in the novel, their entire love story is in their teens. That affects the way you see the characters (the same way I feel like people who are harsh on Romeo and Juliet seem to forget that Juliet is only 13 and Romeo is around 16-17). When Catherine dies about halfway through the novel, she’s only 18 and Heathcliff is 19—this makes her waywardness and impetuosity more understandable, but makes his savagery, violence, and vindictiveness more terrifying. Isabella is also 18, several months younger than Catherine, so it’s understandable that she falls for Heathcliff and perversely ignores both her brother, who dearly loves her, and Catherine, who understands Heathcliff better than anyone else does.  

Another intriguing aspect of their age is that Heathcliff runs away at 16—what does he do at that age and how does he make money in those 3 years? 

Now look at other characters. Hindley is only 21 when he loses his wife Frances, and 27 when he dies. Is it not heartbreaking that he becomes self-destructive and drinks himself to death at 27? But another surprise to me, as I reread Wuthering Heights, is that Nelly Dean’s the same age as Hindley, just a few months younger. I now see that Nelly Dean is a judgemental, manipulative, unreliable woman, which I didn’t quite realise when reading the novel the first time years ago; I also realise that she’s only 26 when Catherine dies, and 22-23 when she causes the rift between Catherine and Heathcliff. 

Note too that Nelly Dean is 14 when Mr Earnshaw brings home the boy Heathcliff, and she joins Hindley in hating and bullying the outsider. She’s a servant, but she also grows up with the main characters. 

2/ I don’t know if I’m going to have anything more interesting to say about Wuthering Heights, so for now I’m just going to say that it is an ingenious novel, carefully constructed, with vivid and well-delineated characters. What a mad imagination! Emily is the genius of the family. 

People tend to name Middlemarch as the greatest British novel, but I much prefer Bleak House and Wuthering Heights. 

Why do some great novels resist adaptation?

Yesterday I watched two Czechoslovakian films: Alice and When the Cat Comes (both of which I recommend). As I was watching Alice, Jan Švankmajer’s wonderfully dark and disturbing adaptation of Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, I thought about classic novels that were adapted for the screen over and over again. 

And I thought, why are some great novels so much harder to adapt than others? 

I’m not talking about novels with an odd structure, an obvious challenge such as Moby Dick or The Sound and the Fury or One Hundred Years of Solitude. I’m also not talking about faithful adaptations—you can’t accuse me of being a purist—just film or TV adaptations that can stand on their own as works of art. Like Jan Švankmajer’s Alice. Or Dr Strangelove. Or Ran.

But clearly some novels seem to resist adaptation. Take Don Quixote for instance. This is one of the most important novels in the world, this is a novel that has been adapted a million times, and yet—perhaps I am ignorant—there is not a single adaptation that is considered a good film of Don Quixote. BFI has an article called “The troubled history of Don Quixote on film”, about the failures of Orson Welles and Walt Disney and Terry Gilliam to bring it (successfully) to the screen. Terry Gilliam in the end managed to make The Man Who Killed Don Quixote in 2019, but it’s not successful, is it? Critic score of 66% and audience score of 59% on Rotten Tomatoes. 

Anna Karenina, another favourite novel of mine, also doesn’t seem to work well on the screen. The challenge of the depth of Tolstoy’s characters is not the only reason. The 1972 adaptation of War and Peace, with Anthony Hopkins as Pierre, demonstrates that it’s possible to convey the depth of characters and the conflicts between them—the only flaw of that version is Natasha (many people love the Soviet version, but it’s only because they seem to be fine with Sergei Bondarchuk stripping away all psychological and philosophical depth and character development). But there is not a single good adaptation of Anna Karenina* and I have seen six different ones: Greta Garbo (1935), Vivien Leigh (1948), Tatiana Samoilova (1967), Sophie Marceau (1997), Keira Knightley (2012), and Vittoria Puccini (2013). There is always something wrong—with Anna or Vronsky or Karenin or all of them—not to mention that the Levin strand is almost always reduced to a mere subplot. 

But I guess the complexity of Tolstoy’s characters is the main reason. Filmmakers tend to go for a simpler version. 

Wuthering Heights is another hard one. Jane Eyre has an excellent adaptation in 2006, with Ruth Wilson as Jane and Toby Stephens as Mr Rochester. Some people seem to like the 2011 film with Mia Wasikowska, for some reason. But Wuthering Heights has not had a single good adaptation—we all agree, yes? The news of the version currently in the works doesn’t particularly cheer anyone up either. How could Emerald Fennel possibly cast Margot Robbie as Cathy and Jacob Elordi as Heathcliff? Madness. 

My favourite Emma: Kate Beckinsale. 

The case of Jane Austen is easier to understand. Almost all of her novels have had a good adaptation: Lady Susan has a brilliant adaptation in 2016, confusingly named Love and Friendship; Northanger Abbey has been adapted only once** in 2007, with Felicity Jones, which seems popular enough; Sense and Sensibility has the Oscar-winning film in 1995 with Emma Thompson and Kate Winslet; Pride and Prejudice has the 1995 series, with Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth, leading to the Austen craze and the whole Janeite industry (though there are, oddly, some people who prefer the Keira Knightley film); Emma has a great adaptation in 1996 with Kate Beckinsale, which is my favourite, though the consensus is that the best one is Clueless; Persuasion has a celebrated version, also in 1995, with Amanda Root as Anne Elliot and Ciarán Hinds as Captain Wentworth. All filmmakers have left to do is to “ruin” them with some “subversive” adaptations, like Netflix has done with Persuasion and presumably will do again with Pride and Prejudice (well, for those who like that sort of thing, that’s the sort of thing they like). 

The one Jane Austen novel that has not had a good adaptation is Mansfield Park. But that is not hard to understand: modern filmmakers cannot handle a morally serious and sombre Jane Austen novel and a heroine so unlike the Strong Female Character trope of Hollywood—Fanny Price, strong in a different way, is not a girlboss or a kickass heroine—filmmakers keep feeling a misplaced urge to “improve” on the book.  

But I do wonder why Wuthering Heights hasn’t got a good adaptation. Is it only because filmmakers keep sanitising and romanticising the story? Or is there some fierce, intense quality to Emily Bronte’s story that makes it impossible to work on the screen? 

But I suppose people are going to attempt again and again. 

** Addendum: There is also a version in 1987 that I did not know about. Thanks, Brian. 

* updated on 13/6/2025: I have now watched a wonderful adaptation of Anna Karenina from 1977. 

The countries we know

It is no surprise that the country I know the best in literature is Britain. The 19th century especially: from Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, George Eliot, the Bronte sisters… to Robert Louis Stevenson, Wilkie Collins, Sherlock Holmes, Lewis Carroll, Dracula, Frankenstein…; my main blind spot is poetry, apart from a handful of poems by John Keats, John Clare, Wordsworth, the Brownings, Christina Rossetti, the Brontes… The 20th century I know less well: mostly Virginia Woolf (with preference for the essays), Muriel Spark, and Wodehouse; Daphne du Maurier, George Orwell, one E. M. Forster, one D. H. Lawrence, one John Fowles, one Graham Greene, one A. S. Byatt, one Kazuo Ishiguro, one or two by Hanif Kureishi… The more I list, the more ignorant I’ve realised I am. The late 16th century, early 17th century: Shakespeare particularly (The Rape of Lucrece left to read), and some of his contemporaries like Marlowe, Webster, Jonson; a bit of John Donne—my greatest humiliation is Milton (attempted a few months ago). I look through my reading of British literature, the 18th century glares back at me and a certain reader of this blog is going to shout, but take it easy, it is in the plan this year. 

But apart from being able to read things in the original, I’ve also got the advantage of going back and forth between London and Yorkshire. London is the city of Dickens and Shakespeare and Sherlock Holmes and plenty of great writers and historical figures. Yorkshire is Bronte Country, not just Haworth and the moors: I go to Filey and Charlotte has stayed there; I take a trip to Scarborough and that’s where Anne was buried; I visit Oakwell Hall and the house inspired one of the settings for Charlotte Bronte’s Shirley. 

(me at Oakwell Hall recently)

American literature is next, again because I’m not hindered by (lack of) translation. Mostly 20th century: back when I was still reading a lot from the 20th century, F. Scott Fitzgerald, J. D. Salinger, Vladimir Nabokov, William Faulkner, Ralph Ellison, Toni Morrison…; Edith Wharton, though she feels more like the 19th century; and in the recent years, Carson McCullers and Flannery O’Connor. Some of the 19th century: mostly Herman Melville and Henry James, The Awakening, The Scarlet Letter, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer…

It is interesting to realise that British literature is the only literature I know through a relatively long span of time (some of you are going to bring up Beowulf and Chaucer, but late 16th century – 20th century is not too bad, yes?). I can roughly see the big picture. With other countries, I only see a small piece. 

Take Russian literature. I think I could say I know the 19th century quite well and with some depth, having read not only Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Chekhov, Gogol, and Turgenev, but also Lermontov and Leskov (I know my greatest humiliation is Pushkin). But the 20th century I only know a bit: Vladimir Nabokov, Vasily Grossman, Doctor Zhivago, a minor Bulgakov (Heart of a Dog), Isaac Babel, plus a few Soviet writers I read back in Vietnam like Maxim Gorky, Paustovsky, Ostrovsky’s How the Steel Was Tempered. The interesting part is that Tolstoy and Chekhov are the two prose writers closest to my heart, despite me knowing no Russian. 

Japanese literature I have read with some range but not much depth, I think. 20th century: Soseki, Akutagawa, Kawabata, Tanizaki, Kobo Abe, Haruki Murakami, Ryu Murakami… Heian literature: Murasaki Shikibu (The Tale of Genji and her diary), Sei Shonagon, and Sarashina Nikki (known in one translation as As I Crossed a Bridge of Dreams). But what happened between the 11th century and the 20th? No clue. All I know is a couple of Basho’s poems from the 17th century. My Japan is mostly cinema. 

It is even worse when I look at other countries. 

See Spain, for instance. I only know the first half of the 17th century: Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Calderón, Tirso de Molina… What happened afterwards? No idea. And even if we talk about 17th century Spain, I’ve only read a couple of plays by Calderón and Lope de Vega when these madmen wrote hundreds.

More embarrassing is the case of France. Whereas Russian literature or American literature has had quite a short period, French literature has a long, rich history like English literature. But I’ve only read a couple of French books from the 19th century: three from Flaubert, one from Zola, one from Balzac. A tiny bit from the 20th century, like Albert Camus. No excuse except my long-held prejudice against the French. 

I haven’t even mentioned the rich literary traditions with which I haven’t got acquainted. 

But perhaps the worst, most embarrassing for me is my ignorance of Vietnamese and Norwegian literatures, considering my background. With Vietnamese literature, I can tell you next to nothing about the books I read as I was growing up in Vietnam; the only thing that helps me score more than zero is that I have read Truyện Kiều, Chinh phụ ngâm, Cung oán ngâm khúc, and quite a bit of Hồ Xuân Hương, and Hàn Mặc Tử is one of my favourite poets. As for Norwegian literature, those of you who have followed this blog for a long time probably remember that I have mentioned multiple times and failed to do a Norwegian literature challenge, but forgive me, at least I have read Henrik Ibsen and plan to get to know well his plays. 

Why did I decide to take a long hard look at my reading? How narrow! How ignorant! 

10 favourite novels and some other lists about books

- 10 favourite novels (updated): 
The Tale of Genji by Murasaki Shikibu 
Anna Karenina by Lev Tolstoy
War and Peace by Lev Tolstoy
Moby Dick by Herman Melville
Mansfield Park by Jane Austen
Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton 
Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert 
Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison 

- 3 favourite writers: 
Jane Austen 
Murasaki Shikibu 
Lev Tolstoy 

- 10 novels I feel worst for not having read:  
The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 
Don Quixote by Miguel De Cervantes
Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe 
Bleak House by Charles Dickens
Life and Fate by Vasily Grossman 
The Tin Drum by Gunter Grass
Hunger by Knut Hamsun 
To The Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf 
Les Miserables by Victor Hugo 
The works of Emile Zola 

- 10 novels I very much want to read though won't read any time soon: 
Ulysses by James Joyce
In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust 
The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov 
Dream of the Red Chamber by Cao Xueqin
Eugenie Grandet by Honore de Balzac 
The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco 
Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray 
Tristram Shandy by Laurence Sterne
My Name Is Red by Orhan Pamuk 
The Red and the Black by Stendhal  

Compare to my lists from 4 years ago.

Update on 27/12/2020: Less than half a year later, my top 10 favourite novels have been updated. 

The Tale of Genji: chapters 1-4

Knulp Tanner and I are having a read-along of The Tale of Genji by Murasaki Shikibu, Japan’s greatest classic novel, from the 11th century. Join the read-along if you like. 
I’m reading Royall Tyler’s translation. 

1/ As I read The Tale of Genji after reading Truyện Kiều and comparing the translations, I can’t help wondering what’s lost in translation.  
Before purchasing the book, I did some research—there are 4 main English translations: Waley’s, Seidensticker’s, Tyler’s, and Washburn’s, in this order. Waley’s was significant in introducing English readers to The Tale of Genji properly for the first time (apparently the earlier one was butchered), but it’s said to be a free translation and sometimes he omitted passages from the text (sounds like Constance Garnett). 
Tyler’s is said to be the closest to the Japanese text, therefore difficult, but it has extensive notes. Seidensticker’s is meant to be somewhere between Waley’s and Tyler’s—loyal but also accessible and readable. 
The latest translation, Washburn’s, is from 2015, so I haven’t found a lot of comments on it. However, the little I’ve read gives me the impression that Washburn often spells things out where Murasaki is being subtle, which I don’t want. 
I should say that translation is difficult, especially as I’m aware of the huge gap between English and East Asian languages and cultures, so translators do what they can, and often readers have different priorities when choosing a translation. 
I myself don’t speak Japanese and don’t have other versions at hand for comparison, but so far I’ve been enjoying Tyler’s. I like that he tries to retain Murasaki’s subtlety, then adds a note to clarify the meaning, which I usually understand without the note (so it’s good that he doesn’t spell it all out).

2/ You must wonder, is it easier for me, being East Asian, to understand The Tale of Genji than a Westerner? 
A little, but not much. 
For example, Vietnamese people also use the lunar calendar, so I may understand the significance of certain dates (such as the 15th of August, which is mid-autumn) and the method of calculating age. We also have the 49-day rituals after someone’s death, which I assume aren’t very different, and the belief that the spirit wanders on earth for those 49 days. 
Another advantage is the occasional feeling of familiarity (or a-ha!) when I catch a Chinese classical allusion. For instance, the image of birds sharing a wing or branches twining together, a Chinese classical allusion, is common in Vietnamese culture (như chim liền cánh, như cây liền cành). There are references in Truyện Kiều and Chinh phụ ngâm. 
At the same time, this is also when the gap between English and East Asian languages and cultures becomes obvious. 
For example, there are frequent references in The Tale of Genji to “Chang hen ge” (長恨歌) by Tang poet Bai Juyi. The title is translated here as “The Song of Unending Sorrow”, and sometimes translated elsewhere as “Song of Everlasting Regret”. In Vietnamese, the title becomes “Trường hận ca” (Sino-Vietnamese—Chinese characters, pronounced the Vietnamese way, and written in the current Vietnamese writing system with Latin alphabet).
The word “hận” (恨) is stronger and has a slightly different tone than “sorrow” and “regret”—in it there is the meaning of “hate” and “anger”. But then the meaning would be lost if the title were to become “The Song of Everlasting Hate”, so there we go. 

3/ As a novel from 11th century Japan, the content of The Tale of Genji is old—the world depicted is alien and strange. The hierarchies, social rules and moral codes, rituals, beliefs, habits, etc. are mostly strange. 
However, the form, the technique is surprisingly modern. 
Let me explain.  
Frankenstein is a novel where I feel the technique is constrained by its time, and outdated. The epistolary novel is not necessarily outdated (even if it’s not as popular and common as it used to be), and neither is the framed story. But Frankenstein has a narrative (the Creature’s) within a narrative (Frankenstein’s) within another narrative (Captain Walton’s correspondence), which is a clumsy way of presenting different perspectives at a time when writers couldn’t (or didn’t) easily switch between narrators. 
The same is with The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. Wuthering Heights also has a framed narrative, but The Tenant of Wildfell Hall has a clumsier structure because Helen’s diary is contained in Gilbert’s letter.
These examples may be confusing because I don’t mean that in The Tale of Genji, Murasaki is doing something Mary Shelley and Anne Bronte try to achieve in their works. What I mean is that the form of The Tale of Genji doesn’t feel outdated and constrained in the sense that the forms of the other 2 novels do. 
To clarify, Murasaki depicts a very alien world, but does it in a way that The Tale of Genji doesn’t feel much different from a 19th century novel—psychological novel—in terms of form. 
Murasaki tells the story and presents the characters as they are, with their actions and thoughts, without commenting. The narrator once in a while appears (about twice so far), in a non-intrusive way—she doesn’t comment, doesn’t spoon-feed the readers, doesn’t moralise. Throughout the text, she is invisible. 
In chapter 2, for example, when several male characters discuss the ideal woman and tell their love stories, Murasaki lets them speak for themselves and shows their differences—we can see their hypocrisy, and the double standards for men and women. 

4/ My main struggle with The Tale of Genji is the mass of characters. 
Compared to Murasaki’s novel, Anna Karenina and War and Peace are easy. War and Peace may have about 400-500 characters, but apart from historical figures, the major characters are in 5 families—the key to remember the characters is therefore to remember which family (or families) they’re connected to.  
The Tale of Genji is confusing because each of the men has several wives and several lovers. How the hell do you draw family trees? I know Genji’s women, but each time a woman is mentioned, I have to pause, who’s this?, for a second.  
These brief outlines of Genji’s women are my own notes for the future. 
- Aoi: Genji’s first wife. He is arranged marriage with her after his coming-of-age ritual—he’s 12, she’s 16. Aoi is daughter of the Minister of the Left and the Princess, the Emperor’s sister, so Aoi and Genji are first cousins. Readers of Mansfield Park who are grossed out by Fanny marrying her cousin Edmund should read The Tale of Genji. 
Genji is close friends with Aoi’s brother, To no Chujo, who is the Chamberlain Lieutenant in chapter 1 and becomes the Secretary Captain from chapter 2. 
- Fujitsubo: the Emperor’s concubine, who is said to look like his dead concubine the Haven (Kiritsubo no Koi), Genji’s mother. Genji fantasises about her—his stepmom.  
- Utsusemi: married to the Iyo Deputy (Iyo no Suke) and stepmom of the Governor of Kii (Ki no Kami). She is distant and plays hard to get, but that doesn’t stop Genji harassing her, using her brother Kogimi (poor kid). Associated with the cicada, because in her flight she leaves behind her gown, like a cicada shell.
- The lady from the West Wing (Nobika no Ogi): sister of the Governor of Kii. The first time Genji sees her, she’s playing Go with Utsusemi. He finds her whilst looking for Utsusemi (chapter 3), but takes her anyway, because a woman is a woman, I guess? Associated with reed because Genji attaches it to his letter. Later she marries the Chamberlain Lieutenant. 
- Yugao: a woman who, in chapter 4, is hiding near the house of Koremitsu, Genji’s confidant. She is 19 years old, has a nurse called Chujo, and has a child with To no Chujo named Tamakazura. Genji doesn’t leave anyone alone, even his close friend’s ex. I shall not mention what happens to her in chapter 4. 
- The Rokujo Haven (Rokujo no Miyasudokoro): widow of a former Heir Apparent. She worries about the age gap, so I assume she’s older than Genji. Murasaki slips her into the narrative in chapter 4, without much introduction, as though readers already know her. It’s a bit confusing.
- There is also a ghost (a spirit?) who fancies Genji. 
War and Peace is easier.

Reading women

1/ As I said earlier, I intended to read more women this year.    
My favourite writers who are female have been, for a few years, Jane Austen and Emily Bronte. Recently I’ve added Edith Wharton. 
In the past, there were a few other female writers I liked a lot, such as Toni Morrison, Sylvia Plath, Isabel Allende, etc. but overtime, their works no longer have the same impact (though I intend to reread, or read more of, Toni Morrison, and see what happens). 
At the moment, my favourite writers are Jane Austen, Lev Tolstoy, Herman Melville, Gustave Flaubert, Vladimir Nabokov, Edith Wharton, and Emily Bronte. 

2/ I’ve just realised something interesting.  
My favourite period for literature is the 19th century. When it comes to Russian literature, I’ve read a large part of Tolstoy’s fictional works (except Resurrection, which I didn’t finish, the plays, and some short stories), and some of Dostoyevsky, Chekhov, Turgenev, Gogol, Leskov, Lermontov, but not a single work by a female writer. 
When it comes to 19th century British literature, however, I’ve realised that my reading of women is not bad at all: I’ve read Jane Austen’s 6 novels plus Lady Susan and the unfinished The Watsons and Sanditon, 3 George Eliot novels (Adam Bede, Middlemarch, Daniel Deronda, not to mention about 1/3 of The Mill on the Floss), 6 out of 7 Bronte novels (Charlotte’s Jane Eyre, Shirley, and Villette, Emily’s Wuthering Heights, Anne’s Agnes Grey and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall), Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Elizabeth Gaskell’s North and South, and probably some other works I can’t think of at the moment. 
In fact, I seem to know the women better than the men—I’ve only read a few Dickens books, a few Wilkie Collins books, a few Stevenson books, etc. and none by Thackeray, Trollope, or Hardy. 
This hasn’t been a conscious desire to read more women, but a combination of interest in classic works (especially Frankenstein and Middlemarch), assigned reading (such as Shirley and Daniel Deronda), and a tendency to read more works by the same author (especially if I like the author).   
Now that I’ve written it down, I realise the holes in my knowledge of Victorian literature—I should actually read more Dickens, and check out Hardy, Trollope, and Thackeray. 

3/ Does this mean that British literature has more great/ celebrated female writers than others, at least in the 19th century? 

4/ I do think people should read widely and diversify their reading. 
However, as I’ve said many times before, I have problems with much of the talk about literature and diversity. 
- The most important thing, when we’re talking about literature, is quality—literary merit, genius, greatness. The other day, I saw someone complain about James Wood’s list of great literary works (in some book) that only a small percentage were by women. People say the same thing when attacking the Western canon.  
I mean, forget about contemporary literature, think about the history of literature and see how many women were writing, and how many women were at the top. There is no doubt that in history, women were seen as inferior and didn’t get the same opportunities as men, and didn’t have “a room of their own” (to use Woolf’s phrase), but that’s exactly why most classic works were written by men.
The only way to have a much higher percentage of books by women on such lists is to include contemporary or more recent works, which haven’t been tested by time, or to replace great works by men with less good works by women just to have more women, which is an anti-artistic, philistine approach.
- People should read widely, but should also read deeply. To me personally, I place much more emphasis on reading deeply, which is why I read slowly, read multiple books by the same author, reread books, and never rush to read a certain number of books per year. 
- I wonder if the people who attack the Western canon and say that books by dead white male authors are irrelevant to people of colour realise that by the same (asinine) logic, books by writers of colour are irrelevant to white people.
- I have noticed that a lot of people who loudly push for diversity in reading don’t seem to realise that other countries exist—they read books by non-white writers in Western countries or non-white writers who write in English, ignoring foreign/ translated books.   
Some others don’t seem to realise that other countries have classics—they mostly read contemporary literature, which includes translated literature, but not translated classics, and also rarely read English classics outside school, which suggests that they dislike the Western canon more because they don’t enjoy classics. 
- There is nothing wrong with reading mainly classics. Some people, including me, prefer to focus on works that have stood the test of time. 
See some of my blog posts on related subjects: 
A call for humility in approaching classic literature. 
The idea of relevance and relatableness in the arts. 
A riff on “dead white men”. 
Long novels and the Stockholm syndrome theory. 
I should repeat: I do think people should read widely, and diversify their reading. This is also a note to myself. 

5/ This is embarrassing, because I’ve read so little, but if I have to compile a list of classic novels by women that I think everyone should read, here it is:
- Jane Austen: Mansfield Park, Emma, Persuasion, Pride and Prejudice. 
- Edith Wharton: The House of Mirth, The Age of Innocence. 
- George Eliot: Middlemarch, Daniel Deronda. 
- Charlotte Bronte: Jane Eyre. 
- Emily Bronte: Wuthering Heights. 
- Anne Bronte: The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. 
- Mary Shelley: Frankenstein.
These are the books I recommend, not only to those who are interested in reading books by women, but to anyone who is serious about literature.

Jane Austen’s views on relationships and marriages, according to Mansfield Park

I’m going to start by saying that, because of my upbringing, I have a rather strong dislike of people, especially women, who make stupid decisions in relationships. I’m talking about women who run after men, let men treat them like shit, and throw away self-respect (Emma Bovary), women who marry a bad boy with the naïve belief that they can change him (Helen Lawrence Huntingdon), women who accept a man who treats other women like trash but think that they are special—an exception, women who let a man cheat on them or beat them but still believe in his promises and stay in the relationship, women who know a guy is a douchebag but keep going back to him, and so on and so forth. 
(To the moralists who want to tell me to sympathise and stop victim-blaming: can you honestly say that there’s never a moment that a friend comes to you for relationship advice and you think she’s goddamn stupid and must get out of the relationship?) 
Anyway. I’m not going to reduce Jane Austen’s wonderful works to self-help books, she’s a great, fantastic writer. But at the same time, apart from her genius, Jane Austen is so close to my heart because we share the same ideas about balance, and virtues, and we also share similar views on relationships. 
So what are Jane Austen’s views on relationships and marriages, according to Mansfield Park?  
1/ Compatibility is important.  
This is something that is in every single Jane Austen novel. Compatibility doesn’t mean that your personalities have to be the same, nor that you always have to like the same things. Compatibility means you share the same world view and values. 
Edmund Bertram and Mary Crawford are incompatible because their world view, habits, and values are different: Mary likes London life and excitement, likes wealth and distinction, can’t accept Edmund becoming a clergyman and tries to change his mind, can’t handle quiet and solitude, and gets bored and restless easily, whilst Edmund is the opposite. She also doesn’t have the delicacy that he values—she speaks disrespectfully of her uncles to strangers (before becoming close to Edmund and Fanny), makes sweeping generalisations about the Navy and the clergy, and doesn’t care about anyone. 
A reader may think Mary is more fun than Fanny, but that’s a personal response and beside the point—Fanny and Edmund have a lot more in common. 
Apart from love and compatibility, Jane Austen shows in her 6 novels, over and over again, that respect, honesty, and understanding are also important for a relationship and marriage. 

2/ Disapproving of men who play with women’s feelings. 
Jane Austen always shows a distrust of charming men who lack openness and always know the right thing to say, but it’s in Mansfield Park that her view is the clearest—she disapproves of men who play with women’s feelings. 

““I cannot think well of a man who sports with any woman's feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered than a stander-by can judge of.”” (Ch.36) 

That comes from Fanny, but it’s obvious in Mansfield Park that the author thinks the same. 
As written in an earlier blog post, Henry plays with Maria’s and Julia’s feelings, makes them fall in love with him for fun, and goes back and forth between the 2 sisters. During the trip to Sotherton, Henry sits with Julia at the front of the carriage, making Maria jealous, then goes off with Maria, leaving Julia behind and abandoning Mr Rushworth, then sits with Julia again on the way back, ignoring Maria. During the play, he cleverly steers himself and Maria into the right parts, making Julia feel slighted, then he flirts with Maria the entire time, in front of Mr Rushworth, without any intention of making her break off the engagement.  
Some readers innocently think Fanny should end up with Henry, or would, if he perseveres. To think so is to misunderstand Jane Austen. Fanny might, convincingly, find Henry charming, and acknowledge some other good qualities, but she says she would never accept him because she has seen enough, and judged him to be a selfish, thoughtless man who likes playing with women’s feelings. He might love her like he never felt about any other woman before, but she is right to distrust it, and read it as a sign of vanity. 

“A little difficulty to be overcome was no evil to Henry Crawford. He rather derived spirits from it. He had been apt to gain hearts too easily. His situation was new and animating.” (Ch.33) 

Again, I don’t doubt that Henry has feelings for Fanny, but the fact that she doesn’t like him back attracts him even more.  
In the end, Fanny’s right for distrusting and refusing Henry. 
(Now I suppose you can guess my thoughts on Rochester—honestly, Jane Austen’s much wiser than Charlotte Bronte).

3/ Against the idea that a woman can or should try to change a man. 
Through Fanny, Jane Austen expresses her view that a woman shouldn’t accept a bad guy and expect to reform him—that’s a naïve, idealistic thought, it never works (look at Anne Bronte’s The Tenant of Wildfell Hall). Not only so—let’s look at this conversation between Fanny and Edmund: 

““I am persuaded that he does not think, as he ought, on serious subjects.”
“[…] Crawford's feelings, I am ready to acknowledge, have hitherto been too much his guides. Happily, those feelings have generally been good. You will supply the rest; and a most fortunate man he is to attach himself to such a creature—to a woman who, firm as a rock in her own principles, has a gentleness of character so well adapted to recommend them. He has chosen his partner, indeed, with rare felicity. He will make you happy, Fanny; I know he will make you happy; but you will make him everything.”
“I would not engage in such a charge,” cried Fanny, in a shrinking accent; “in such an office of high responsibility!”” (Ch.35) 

Here, Jane Austen also goes against the 19th century idea that women are morally superior and should try to tame and manage their husbands.  

4/ A woman has the right to say no, and doesn’t have to provide reason. 
When Edmund tells Fanny that Henry’s sisters, Mary and Mrs Grant, are disappointed and not happy that she rejects Henry, this is the response: 

““I should have thought,” said Fanny, after a pause of recollection and exertion, “that every woman must have felt the possibility of a man's not being approved, not being loved by some one of her sex at least, let him be ever so generally agreeable. Let him have all the perfections in the world, I think it ought not to be set down as certain that a man must be acceptable to every woman he may happen to like himself. […] How, then, was I to be—to be in love with him the moment he said he was with me? How was I to have an attachment at his service, as soon as it was asked for? His sisters should consider me as well as him. […] And, and—we think very differently of the nature of women, if they can imagine a woman so very soon capable of returning an affection as this seems to imply.”” (Ch.35) 

That is such an important passage that I’m surprised I’ve read dozens of essays about Mansfield Park and nobody ever talks about it. A woman has the perfect right to say no, and doesn’t have to justify herself for not loving a man who says he loves her.   

5/ Against the idea that if a woman says no, a man should persevere till she says yes. 
Henry declares his feelings to Fanny, she has no interest, but he doesn’t leave her alone. 

“The gentleman was not so easily satisfied. He had all the disposition to persevere that Sir Thomas could wish him. He had vanity, which strongly inclined him in the first place to think she did love him, though she might not know it herself; and which, secondly, when constrained at last to admit that she did know her own present feelings, convinced him that he should be able in time to make those feelings what he wished.
He was in love, very much in love; and it was a love which, operating on an active, sanguine spirit, of more warmth than delicacy, made her affection appear of greater consequence because it was withheld, and determined him to have the glory, as well as the felicity, of forcing her to love him.
[…] Must it not follow of course, that, when he was understood, he should succeed? He believed it fully. Love such as his, in a man like himself, must with perseverance secure a return, and at no great distance; and he had so much delight in the idea of obliging her to love him in a very short time, that her not loving him now was scarcely regretted.” (Ch.33) 

Just like Mr Collins thinks Elizabeth Bennet rejects him because she doesn’t know her own feelings, Henry doesn’t end it after getting rejected, but keeps coming back and trying to persuade her, even speaks to Sir Thomas, and doesn’t leave her alone. It’s not only him but everyone in the book, especially Sir Thomas, thinks that he only has to persevere and she will yield. Different people try to convince and put pressure on Fanny, from Sir Thomas to Mary Crawford. 
It’s the same today—many men can’t accept a no from a woman, and think that if they just keep asking, at some point the woman will say yes.  
Some people may argue that Mr Darcy proposes twice in Pride and Prejudice and Robert Martin does the same in Emma, but in each case, there’s a gap between the 2 proposals, and many things happen in that time. There’s a difference between trying again after some time, not giving up after a rejection, and harassing a woman till she says yes, which is what Henry tries to do. Henry keeps coming back and talking about it, helps William get promoted to keep score and make Fanny accept him, and tries to make everyone else put pressure on her.  
It is clear that Jane Austen strongly objects to the idea that if a woman says no, a man should persevere till she says yes. 
In short, by using the marriage plot over and over again, Jane Austen keeps exploring different kinds of relationships and stressing the important elements for a happy marriage. Mansfield Park is the novel that encapsulates the best her views on relationships and marriages.