~ 4 stars ~

jane austen flexes her observational superpowers yet again—though technically this is the first novel she ever wrote—by giving us the tale of two sisters as different as the sun and the moon, each stumbling her way toward a happily‑ever‑after. honestly i got to respect how committed austen is to those tidy endings, even when she has to drag her characters there by the ankles.

what makes sense and sensibility so irresistibly fun is how austen's already razor-sharp and witty writing style, laced with necessary dry irony, doubles as a historical documentation: a further proof that men have always been, broadly speaking, pathetic creatures unworthy of excessive emotional investment… unless, of course, you're colonel brandon (the lone competent man who doesn't talk much but when he does, we shall all listen) or edward "perpetual damsel in distress" ferrars, who spends the entire book stressed, underemployed, and one minor inconvenience away from a victorian burnout diagnosis.

honestly? relatable. commendable, even.

through all this, the dashwood girlies remain the true heart of the story, which is a detail i adore in every piece of literature i get my hands on. women are just great... i don't know what else to tell you. they simply are. elinor, the embodiment of sense, quietly holding everyone's emotional baggage like the greatest customer support agent she was never supposed to be; and marianne, pure sensibility, flinging herself into life, love and melodrama with the enthusiasm of someone who has never once in their life considered the existence of real consequences.

anyway, good for the girls. may they continue to loathe small talk, reject nonsense in all its forms, and uphold emotional standards that would terrify half the contemporary dating pool.

let no man steal your thyme, sisters.