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sarahsternberg 's review for:
Jane Eyre
by Charlotte Brontë
JESUS I am finally giving up on this book. I can't do it anymore. It's just ... so ...dry.
I understand that this is a classic, a perennial favourite, a tome that revolutionized the very act of storytelling itself, and still... I couldn't do it. I try and try at least once a year, and still can't make it past page 350 --- or somewhere around the time Mr. Rochester accidentally sets himself on fire (250 year old spoiler alert, sorry).
The thing is, the novel starts off so strong. Jane's life is a non-stop horrorshow with only the faintest glimmers of mercy. The first half is also peppered in with some horribly delightful hypocrites, like the Catholic principal who teaches modesty and temperance and wants all the girls to cut off their hair because of "vanity".... only for his wife to walk in wearing furs and a peacock hat. That's some Lemony Snicket type of shit, right there, yo! So sad, but so funny.
And Helen Burns. Oh, Helen Burns. A girl so patient and forgiving and resilient that she makes Jesus look like O.J. Simpson on a vicodin tear.
Well, she dies and then Jane's life gets marginally better and it all goes to shit.
Suddenly, instead of just trying to *survive,* Jane is thrust into this tepid sort of purgatory at Thornfield Hall, where she's employed as a tutor to some young richie rich girl named Adele. Things aren't great for Jane, but they aren't necessarily bad either. She learns to speak French. She has a bedroom. Someone named Grace also lives there. I don't really know, because at this point I just sort of zoned out.
Apparently there's supposed to be some sort of love-struck moment when Jane sees hottie Rochester for the first time as he falls off a horse. Sexy! I say there's "supposed to be," because I couldn't find it. I went back and read that chapter twice (after thrice attempts to read this book in the past). It just sort of happens, in the same way that spilling your coffee or getting your headphones hooked on a door handle happens. Then Jane says something like "hurgle turgle" and he barely acknowledges her existence for another forty pages. Sexy!
Anyway, that's that on that. I'm giving up because I can't stop zoning out while reading and Jane went from being an adorable, intrepid little girl to some personality-less wafer that I kind of want to smack. I kept picturing her as Little Women-era Winona Ryder --- all vacant eyed and bambi-ish. Like, can you imagine having a conversation with adult Jane Eyre? What's she gonna talk about? Curtains?
Also, I know there's a "mad woman" in the attic (Actually just a normal woman probably having a bad day since she was you know, KIDNAPPED). I was actually holding out so long *specifically* for that part, but I just couldn't do it. I sit satisfied knowing that Jamaica Kincaid and Jean Rhys did a way better job of picking apart the yucky colonialist parts of that whole story.
Boring. Overwritten. Pass the pinot grigio PLEASE.
I understand that this is a classic, a perennial favourite, a tome that revolutionized the very act of storytelling itself, and still... I couldn't do it. I try and try at least once a year, and still can't make it past page 350 --- or somewhere around the time Mr. Rochester accidentally sets himself on fire (250 year old spoiler alert, sorry).
The thing is, the novel starts off so strong. Jane's life is a non-stop horrorshow with only the faintest glimmers of mercy. The first half is also peppered in with some horribly delightful hypocrites, like the Catholic principal who teaches modesty and temperance and wants all the girls to cut off their hair because of "vanity".... only for his wife to walk in wearing furs and a peacock hat. That's some Lemony Snicket type of shit, right there, yo! So sad, but so funny.
And Helen Burns. Oh, Helen Burns. A girl so patient and forgiving and resilient that she makes Jesus look like O.J. Simpson on a vicodin tear.
Well, she dies and then Jane's life gets marginally better and it all goes to shit.
Suddenly, instead of just trying to *survive,* Jane is thrust into this tepid sort of purgatory at Thornfield Hall, where she's employed as a tutor to some young richie rich girl named Adele. Things aren't great for Jane, but they aren't necessarily bad either. She learns to speak French. She has a bedroom. Someone named Grace also lives there. I don't really know, because at this point I just sort of zoned out.
Apparently there's supposed to be some sort of love-struck moment when Jane sees hottie Rochester for the first time as he falls off a horse. Sexy! I say there's "supposed to be," because I couldn't find it. I went back and read that chapter twice (after thrice attempts to read this book in the past). It just sort of happens, in the same way that spilling your coffee or getting your headphones hooked on a door handle happens. Then Jane says something like "hurgle turgle" and he barely acknowledges her existence for another forty pages. Sexy!
Anyway, that's that on that. I'm giving up because I can't stop zoning out while reading and Jane went from being an adorable, intrepid little girl to some personality-less wafer that I kind of want to smack. I kept picturing her as Little Women-era Winona Ryder --- all vacant eyed and bambi-ish. Like, can you imagine having a conversation with adult Jane Eyre? What's she gonna talk about? Curtains?
Also, I know there's a "mad woman" in the attic (Actually just a normal woman probably having a bad day since she was you know, KIDNAPPED). I was actually holding out so long *specifically* for that part, but I just couldn't do it. I sit satisfied knowing that Jamaica Kincaid and Jean Rhys did a way better job of picking apart the yucky colonialist parts of that whole story.
Boring. Overwritten. Pass the pinot grigio PLEASE.