![]() ![]() So I was very much looking forward to meeting Sophie Kinsella. The book's key ingredient – a sassy but klutzy female protagonist, embroiled in comical misadventures – could arguably be found in Jane Eyre, leaving any definition so elastic as to verge on meaningless. Bridget Jones's Diary is generally cited as an early example, but Allison Pearson hit the roof when her novel about a working mother, I Don't Know How She Does It, was assigned to the genre. Part of the problem is that no one can agree on a definition of chick lit. Harmless escapism? Cynical commercialism? Post-feminism at its most depressingly inane? Or is it an insult to the intelligence of women who like to read and write about contemporary female lives? If Jane Austen were alive today, would her books come in pink sparkly covers? If glitter sells, should we even care? Does chick lit propagate a retrograde notion of women as shallow cretins – or reflect their nuanced reality? And on and on it goes. ![]() ![]() W hat do we think about chick lit? It's a question that has been on a sort of literary loop for about 15 years. ![]()
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