What is Classic?

In my junior year of high school, the purpose of one semester's term paper was to render a verdict as to whether or not a piece of literature should be considered "classic." This question resurfaced yesterday in our semi-annual excursion to the cinema. Every so often, I hear that a newly made movie will be to my liking. Yesterday's feature was Joe Wright's Pride and Prejudice. Is Pride and Prejudice a classic? Considering that it adorns the shelves of many a contemporary English-speaking home two hundred years after publication bodes well for a positive decision. But why is it still read? Most of the social customs of the day are outdated; the English country gentry who occupy most of the novel's limelight were a dying breed even in the day of writing; and the storyline is not so original that it could not be conceived from anyone who learned Cinderella or Beauty and the Beast from a young age. Yet somehow Jane Austen manages to blend societal parody and true love in such a way that makes young ladies pine and cynics chuckle. Her witty language puts modern romance novelists to shame. Furthermore, the manner in which she employs social norms to cause suspense and to conceal the characters' true feelings for each other makes her a masterful artist indeed. But should these crafts of subtlety place her among the ranks of Chaucer, Dante, and Tolstoy? I dare say not yet. The true classic element of Pride and Prejudice is that every Western romance contains a bit of Miss Bennett's curious reflection and a dab of Darcy's mystery. Which brings me to my favorite part of yesterday's movie experience. We saw the matinee, which meant most of the audience appeared married and over seventy. Walking out, I, along with all the other men in the room, carried ourselves with a little more grace and acted with a little more civility as we escorted our brides out into the street.