Austen may understand the smallness of life to perfection, but she does not perfectly capture life, because for her, life has no bigness at all. For Austen, life is wholly and purposefully absent of the extraordinary. C.S Lewis writes in his “A Note on Austen” that “She is no Utopian.” I find this claim to be a radical understatement. Austen moves and breaths in a nineteenth century English universe that is at once morally and socially rigid. Austen, who follows Johnson, has far more in common with her deistic and empirical contemporaries than with any Christian writer. Johnson and Austen’s god is a distant one, who creates a depraved human being and leaves him to his own devices in a boorish, mundane world. Austen’s novels are not simply “not Utopian,” they are truly pessimistic accounts of small minds with even smaller lives—the smallest of whom are her heroes.

            Johnson begins his Rambler No. 4 with the following quotation: “The works of fiction… are such as exhibit life in its true state, diversified only by accidents that daily happen in the world, and influenced by passions and qualities which are really to be found in conversing with mankind.[i] For Johnson, the novel is concerned with the mimesis of reality, and thus selects for its subject matter the daily occurrences and conversations of every day life. Johnson continues, condemning the fairy tale and “heroic romance” as artificial entertainment meant to excite the idle mind. He writes: “it is therefore precluded from the machines and expedients of the heroic romance, and can neither employ giants to snatch away a lady from the nuptial rites, nor knights to bring her back from captivity; it can neither bewilder its personages in deserts, nor lodge them in imaginary castles” (155). The task of the author is to provide a moral education through the “normal.”  Austen takes this advice to heart, and selects the most normal of people for her subject matter, and places them only in the most normal of circumstances. She does this so that the “normal,” “small,” “average,” fellow might recognize his own life contained in between the pages of her novels.
            To be sure, Austen masterfully captures these characters as they interact with each other. She does so with simplicity, subtlety, and a supreme wit that cannot be replicated. There is something admirable in packing a particular moment in life with power and meaning. Austen indeed does this well in her scene where Mr. Nightly meets Jane Fairfax on her way to mail a letter. Their conversation is the surface to a sea of depth. Only Austen can capture such a moment with such subtlety. I take issue not with “the small” as her proper subject matter, but with Austen’s use, and not only use of, but limit to, the “normal.”   

            Austen limits herself to the normal, or the ordinary, and in doing so, eliminates all possibility for the extraordinary. When Austen removes the nights and castles and giants of the fairy tale from her works, I say: “fair enough Ms. Austin, fair enough;” far be it from me to tell an author what she can and cannot select to mimetically represent in her fiction. Fairy tale castles and 19^th century estates can be just as effective, as long as she honestly captures the human experience. Austen, however, does not stop with throwing out the nights and castles and giants. C.S Lewis writes of Austen’s world: “Elinor felt sure that if Marianne’s new composure were based on ‘serious reflection’ it ‘must eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulness’. That it might lead instead to a hair-shirt or a hermitage or a pillar in the Thebaid is not in Jane Austen’s mind.”[ii] To be sure, more often than not, the ordinary person would not end up on a pillar in the Thebaid. The issue is that there are people who would. As I said previously, it is not necessary for an author to write about those people that are extraordinary. I do not accuse Austen of simply poor choice in subject matter. The problem is that she purposely excludes the possibility of the extraordinary from characters and circumstances both. The process goes like this: “Why doesn’t Marianne run off, go on a journey of the soul that leads her halfway across the world? Well, obviously because normal people don’t do that, that’s too much like a fairy tale. She should be perfectly content to stay and marry Colonel Brandon.” But normal people, when placed in extraordinary circumstances, sometimes do extraordinary things, and so become extraordinary. That possibility is entirely cut off from Austen’s characters in order to preserve “normality.”
             I would venture to make the claim—however outrageous it may seem—that most “normal” human beings, whatever the age, do not live meaningful lives—or meaningful stories for that matter. That is where the term “extraordinary” gets its positive connotations. Most human beings themselves are dull, so when an author limits himself to “normal” people and “normal” circumstances, he must not be surprised when he finds himself steeped in the insipid.
            That is precisely my quarrel with Austen. For all her dynamic narration and characterization, she limits her world to dull and insipid characters and disallows for any possibility of extraordinary change. Her hero’s demonstrate this insipidity magnificently. Edward Ferrars and Mr. Darcy are very week characters, and as real men in a real world, would garner little respect from anyone around them. They are hardly the type of men whose grandchildren will still be telling stories about them ten years after their epithets have been inscribed on their grave stones. In short, they would be all but ignored. For instance, Edward Ferrars, as a character is hailed for his dutiful and loyal nature. He refuses to break off an old engagement to Lucy Steele, even with complete knowledge of what a manipulative man hunter she is. Dogs, however, are loyal and dutiful. Men are leaders. When Austen describes Edward Ferrars, she does little to justify why any woman would find him attractive. She writes:

            None of Austen’s heroes have any vocational calling or public aspiration outside of the heroin’s respective social circle, not even the illustrious Mr. Darcy. At the start of Pride and Prejudice, Darcy is well satisfied with himself and his own status. He lives as any member of the wealthy class could afford to live. He reads in his well stocked library, goes riding on the countryside, and detests dancing with such rabble as Lizzy Bennet. [iii] Thankfully, by the end of the novel, Lizzie has cured him of his distaste for dancing. However, I cannot yet find a reason for her to marry him other than the fact that he is the best that the narration has to offer. Of course, when compared with Bingly, Collins, and Wickham, Darcy is the spitting image of manly virtue and learning, but the world he inhabits is so very, very small. Surly there are other men in England that would marry Lizzy who are at once wealthy, intelligent, and have all the dreams and desires and spirit that make the human being so dynamic and interesting? That option is not left open for Lizzy. For her, Darcy is the only intelligent male in a six man world of imbeciles. Simply put, it is Austen’s narrative ability that makes Mr. Darcy and Edward Ferrars attractive, and only by comparison to the absolute dregs of boorishness. The attraction over Austen’s readership does not spring forth from any energy within them selves, Edward least of all. Yet, it is true, men such as this often do marry, just as it is true that women often settle for such men.

            Lewis writes of this very subject that “In real life, no doubt, we continue to respect interesting women despite the preposterous men they sometimes marry. But in fiction it is usually fatal” (Lewis.182). Of course we may still love a woman who marries a preposterous ignoramus the same way we may love a friend who borrowed your car and returned it without a front bumper. Mistakes may be forgiven. Lewis recognizes that in fiction, however, the failure to select a worthy spouse is a death sentence. For Austen, too it seems selecting a spouse is at once a moral and human imperative. Poor selection is indicative of a failure in character analysis. Mr. Bennet remarks of Charlotte Lucas’ dubious choice in Mr. Collins: “it gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had been used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and more foolish than his daughter!” (Pride and Prejudice.23). I level the same accusation against Elizabeth. A truly sensible and witty woman would not be easily attracted to a man as docile as Edward or as priggish as Darcy, and a marriage to such a one would seem like a failure in judgement.

             Mr. Bennet’s own marriage to the endlessly prattling Mrs. Bennet is the marriage of two unequal minds, which are mixed with disastrous result. Austen narrates in Pride and Prejudice: “To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted, than as her ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement” (195). Mr. Bennet’s marriage is not a happy one due to the inquality of mind. Lizzy and Darcy my be equal in their  reasoning capacities, but they are not in any way equal in character. One could hardly see Mr. Darcy walking miles through the mud, jumping in puddles and rejoicing in creation, as Elizabeth might. Nor would he playfully scorn an indignant blue blooded lady for his own amusement, as Elizabeth might. To be quite honest, one could hardly see Mr. Darcy playing at anything at all (for it would hardly be “becoming" of a 19^th century man to do so). Elizabeth is a creature of wit, not simply of reason, and Darcy in no way measures up to her playful spirit.

            Being cool, in the high school social hierarchy, and in general, involves not caring. You don’t personally invest yourself in anything, especially not school function related. We saw this during this year’s freshman orientation. Every year previous, we’ve had absolutely no trouble creating an atmosphere of excitement. This year, whenever we tried to pump up the freshman class, the entire front section (the football team) refused to get up and cheer. Why? It would involve them investing themselves in a school function. Only losers do that.

That is the athlete problem. But what is the solution? Cutting the football team would be good, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. Barring that, we need to spread them out. Give athletes non athlete room mates, put them in different dorms. Make all efforts to establish the seniors as the leaders of campus, above the freshman athletes. Remove the TV from the cafeteria. I think getting some Focus Missionaries in the dorms would help a lot as well. De-stigmatizing the households would be the best move. Whatever you chose to do, orientation is the starting point. Like my bro Monty said, “Just tell them what the school is at orientation, and it will be that.” Go on a rosary walk with them every night, be loud, be crazy, be emphatic and unwavering. These really aren’t even close to being solutions, but if we are aware of what is going on beneath the social vale, we’ll be one step closer to unity.