A Disappointing Read

I was very proud of myself.  I saw that Alexander McCall Smith had written a modernized version of Jane Austen's Emma; I can't remember where.  I went home from wherever I was and opened the public library's new and improved website to find that there were 26 copies ordered, 5 copies in large type, and that I was the first person to put any one of them on hold.

 Three days later, an email arrived.  My book was ready to be read.  All I had to do was get myself to the branch and pick it up.  I finished the Anne Perry Christmas story I was devouring and found my book on the Reserve Shelf.

It was brand new.  I was the first patron to open the binding of the large type edition. It was thrilling. I am not exaggerating.  There's a wonderful frisson I feel every time I open a new book.  The fact that I wasn't paying for the book made it all the sweeter.

(Yes, I pay taxes for the library and I donate to The Friends of the Library, but no funds changed hands for the privilege of reading this particular tome.  This disclaimer is for those of you who insist that I care more about the story than the facts.)

The pages were bright white.  The binding allowed the book to lie flat on a table while I ate breakfast. I found no grammatical errors.

That's all the positive thoughts I have on this book.  I suppose it could have been worse; Emma and the Zombies comes to mind. But this was one time where I read quickly just so that the experience could end.

It wasn't bad enough to put down before I finished, but it came close.

This was a special disappointment, because I love Alexander McCall Smith.  I've never had this reaction to one of his books, and I've read them all.  It was totally unexpected and completely awful and I can't figure out why.  Smith has a deft and gentle touch when describing the foibles of his characters.  None of them are perfect, yet he loves them all.  Even the most selfish and self-centered of them are treated with respect; their depths are plumbed and we begin to understand the why's and wherefores, without anything being explicitly stated.

For some reason, he decided to take a heavy hand with Emma.  It reads like a romance novel. Emma's transition from brat to awareness happens with all the subtlety of a monsoon electric storm.  It flashes brightly from the page, thunking the reader with a sledgehammer of obviousness.  Jane Austen let it unfold slowly; Smith clangs the cymbals and rolls out the carpet.

Up to, through, and after this point, Emma remains unlikable.  There is no reason for Mr. Knightley to love her; she brings nothing to the equation.  She is thoughtless and rude, the beneficiary of a second-rate education.  She is dull, does nothing, and doesn't seem to mind.  While I'm not a big fan of Jane Austen's Emma, she's a rock star when compared to Smith's.

Read The #1 Ladies' Detective Agency, series, the Isabel Dalhousie series, the love stories on the train.  But stay away from this one.

You have been warned.