Mags's Reviews > Jane Eyre

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë
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Mar 25, 12

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Read from March 18 to 24, 2012

I, uh, I giggled. I did. Like a lunatic. The slow start (which was reasonable since it takes me some time to get used to the old English language) unfolded carefully, then trampled fast in a steady pace. When it got to Mr. Rochester—that is, beginning from their first bump in Hay Lane up to the night of the proposal—I continually giggled. And not even the polite, repressed giggle that lasts for a few seconds. No. My giggles required burying my face inside the pages of the book, exclaiming fitful schoolgirl laughs, with my legs swinging uncontrollably in the air. And I am not at all exaggerating. I wish I was.

I am one of the demented girls, much like those who had been before me, who wasted in front of the sexiness embodied in Mr. Rochester. True, he had been described as textbook ugly, but his very persona and how he carried himself, how he was portrayed throughout the book, could not make me believe this description of him. And thus, through reading Jane Eyre, I found out that physical beauty that was supposed to be reserved for leading characters were not important to me, nor did they play a little significance. And while Mr. Rochester had been labeled as deceitful and a conniving dick, I chose to see reason and be unbiased (which isn't really affected by how I would fuck his brains out, at all) for Brontë had created this breathing human, capable of grave mistakes and, in turn, repentance. What living characters she had constructed in this book! And this is why I chose to love and forgive and love again Mr. Rochester until the end. You people who bash on him have been much too accustomed to the perfect Mr. Darcys and heroic Mr. Knightleys that it abhorred you when presented with a vile, ugly character who did abominable wrongdoings unsuited for early 19th century literature! A pox on you!

(Sorry; this really happens when I read too much of the old English; I tend to absorb it and let it grace my normal wazzup way of thinking, which I think is always good exercise.)

This 600-page novel is a very tedious read, and it requires a patient and passionate heart. Despite the hard language, I couldn't help but keep turning the pages. I love, love, love Jane Eyre so much. It was midnight last night that I realized that I only have about 20 pages more, but I couldn't possibly sleep without knowing that my loved characters would have a happy ending. To avoid spoiling it, I would not say anymore, but I just want to put it out here that Chapter 37 is my favorite of all, and I wish to tear it out, fold it, and keep it in my breast pocket—but this is just the hopeless romantic in me that's talking.
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03/20/2012 page 34
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