Tag Archives: Charlotte Brontë

“More vivid kinds of goodness.”

When I closed the book, it was as if I’d been cut adrift. Having been submerged so intensely in Charlotte Brontë—to have cared, again, and always so immensely, for Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester—to have realized something about myself and about the small, still Janet—and then having to return to the real world. Returning to the real world and my mind realigning to look upon landscapes as stormy moors, to look upon clusterfucks as madwomen in my attic. To spy Blanche Ingrams and Mrs. Reeds and St. Johns and scolding my brain whenever it strays towards what Rochesters this world has to offer. And to look upon that book now closed and replaced on the bedside table, waiting for the next time I’ll read it again as though it were the first time, as though it was just another marker in this long-and-longest bibliophiliac constancy. [Continue reading.]

Approximating normal

I’ve been—knock on wood—sailing calmer waters lately. Sure, my ever-lengthening list of gripes remains handy, but the clusterfucks are at a manageable, if not tolerable, level. I’m only able to articulate this now, actually—at the close of a day that’s oddly restful despite the terrible weather and the work that comes with it; at the close of a weekend that was fun and the happy kind of exhausting, give or take a few grumbles from my frail, mortal body. I’m in a good mood, if only because I’m not in a foul mood. Yeah, that’s cheery. Here’s another: The reading’s picking up, if only because the reading actually exists. [Continue reading.]

“Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.”

My love for Jane Eyre seems to me one of my constants. It’s up there with Madame Bovary being my spirit animal, with Barthes’ “extreme solitude” ringing true time and again, with the implacability of Hogwarts. I first read Jane Eyre when I was about nine—having stolen my mother’s Bantam paperback edition from her dresser—and promptly avowed that spunky Jane was my best friend; was as furious and indignant with the slights and injustices at the Reeds, at Lowood, at Thornfield Hall, and wherever goddamned moor she stayed in much later; and fell violently in love with the odd Edward Rochester. I’d return to the book over the years, never something set; Jane Eyre would accompany me from one house to another, editions growing in number, the marginalia growing more and more confident (even in sometimes-quiet). [Continue reading.]

I Hereby Take Umbrage

Some books are yours. That even though you’re content to twiddle your thumbs and indulge in boundless book love in your corner of the vast interwebz, you have to add to the pot-stirring amid the cobwebs around you because there are very objectionable [and unconscionable] things being said about your book, and that won’t do, […]

marginalia || Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte – pt. 03

Most true is it that “beauty is in the eye of the gazer.”  My master’s colourless, olive face, square, massive brow, broad and jetty eyebrows, deep eyes, strong features, firm, grim mouth,—all energy, decision, will,—were not beautiful, according to rule; but they were more than beautiful to me; they were full of an interest, an […]

marginalia || Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte – pt.02

[For those inclined, here’s Part 01 of the Rereading Jane Eyre series, which talks about: This long-awaited reunion. Things I’ve forgotten, things to remember. And, re the book itself (hee), Jane Eyre’s childhood.] I have realized that I am now older than the Jane Eyre that most appears in the novel. I am twenty-one. [Present] […]

marginalia || Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte – pt.01

. . . I believed in the existence of other and more vivid kinds of goodness, and what I believed in I wished to behold. An Introduction. Of Sorts. — What follows is, I am afraid, a rather self-indulgent post. I have reread what has to be my favoritest-est book ever. I have loved this book […]