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A review by _b_a_l_
Jane Steele by Lyndsay Faye
4.0
I love Jane Eyre. I've read it maybe a dozen times since I was a pre-teen.
But as I got older I found Jane more annoying - why the hell didn't she just stay with Mr Rochester and be happy? Who cares that he has a wife - she's a lunatic! Why would you leave without taking any money with, isn't that just stupid?! etc.
Jane Steele is not like that. She takes responsibility for, and prioritises, her own happiness.
She's badass but her voice is still very Janey.
Some of my favourite bits:
We tell stories to strangers to ingratiate ourselves, stories to lovers to better adhere us skin to skin, stories in our heads to banish the demons. When we tell the truth, often we are callous; when we tell lies, often we are kind. Through it all, we tell stories, and we own an uncanny knack for the task.
***
I relate to this story almost as I would a friend or a lover – at times I want to breathe its entire alphabet into my lungs, and at others I should prefer to throw it across the room.
***
With hard work added to the formula, it would be enough; I might linger here, and so bury myself in projects that no one should see I was transparent by daylight, a ghost with a soul of smoke and secrets.
***
We are all of us daily decaying, after all; the speed is our only variant.
***
Then and there I vowed that Clarke should escape me; I should never seek her out, never threaten her fragile freedom, for all that my chest felt as empty as the wide spaces between the stars she so adored.
But as I got older I found Jane more annoying - why the hell didn't she just stay with Mr Rochester and be happy? Who cares that he has a wife - she's a lunatic! Why would you leave without taking any money with, isn't that just stupid?! etc.
Jane Steele is not like that. She takes responsibility for, and prioritises, her own happiness.
She's badass but her voice is still very Janey.
Some of my favourite bits:
We tell stories to strangers to ingratiate ourselves, stories to lovers to better adhere us skin to skin, stories in our heads to banish the demons. When we tell the truth, often we are callous; when we tell lies, often we are kind. Through it all, we tell stories, and we own an uncanny knack for the task.
***
I relate to this story almost as I would a friend or a lover – at times I want to breathe its entire alphabet into my lungs, and at others I should prefer to throw it across the room.
***
With hard work added to the formula, it would be enough; I might linger here, and so bury myself in projects that no one should see I was transparent by daylight, a ghost with a soul of smoke and secrets.
***
We are all of us daily decaying, after all; the speed is our only variant.
***
Then and there I vowed that Clarke should escape me; I should never seek her out, never threaten her fragile freedom, for all that my chest felt as empty as the wide spaces between the stars she so adored.