easy! because okay. pride and prejudice is metamorphic through and through. but the transformations are less concrete / visually manifest than, say, kafka’s insect or the odyssey's man-thwarting witches.
the clue is the title: the crux of it is the mutual, inch-by-inch then all at once transformations of elizabeth and darcy, the falling away of their pride and prejudices. it’s the idea that humans can undergo profound metamorphosis catalysed by love (and money, the novel’s other fixation, because in austen’s world a person changing social class is an equally dramatic rupture).
the abstract but radical nature of transformation — how a life can be ruined or mended by a word, a look, the briefest of touches — is a concept the narrative goes back to again and again; and actually dramatises, because austen’s novel is a study of the intricacies of manners and etiquette and intimacy, of that strange insular drawing-room world hinged upon small and great shifts of surface and substance. and when these changes happen, it’s women who have most to gain or lose.
(actually. to get one degree more meta, pride and prejudice is a transitional or metamorphic text: austen’s novels are published at the same time as the work of blake, wordsworth, byron, et al. but she’s writing something profoundly different, at a moment when the novel is rapidly changing; and austen’s text underwent dramatic changes during its creation, from an epistolary novel called first impressions to the third-person free indirect of pride and prejudice. and austen herself is a chimera, a creature of changing times: a woman of leisure was not supposed to make a living at all, particularly not from authorship, which wasn’t considered a respectable means of income for a woman of her class.)
some people consider pride and prejudice to be tame and quaint and effervescent, but it’s actually a disquieting novel about instability, transition, faultlines in the old bastions of power, shifting social hierarchies—and women’s terrible vulnerability to changes of fortune.