You look so ... so .... stoopud.

I read a comment on a blog one time about Jane Eyre, where the poster said something to the effect of, What's not to like about a story where two ugly people get together?

Indeed.

I'm sure I've written a review of Jane Eyre before, I just don't remember when or where. It might have even been on my blog. Perhaps the old blog that I deleted a few years ago. However, as many reviews as I've already written (in theory), I am going to write another one. Haters should stop reading here, because Jane Eyre is still my favorite book.

It must be admitted that I loved Jane Eyre at the age of fourteen because it was the first literary romance I ever read. I knew nothing of the story—nothing. A local bookstore was closing, and my parents were of the opinion that bookstores and libraries were capital places to spend Family Home Evening. I was perusing, and my mother held up a copy of the book that was to change my life forever. A Puffin Classic, with a purple cover and a picture of a rather gothic-looking mansion and a long-dressed, bonnet-clad girl in front of it. And stormy skies behind. Who could resist?

Well, probably a lot of people could have, but not this budding literary, sentimental mind of mine.

I took it home and proceeded to stay up all night reading it. Thus, the creation of a very bad habit I have yet to break ...

It was just so good. I got caught up in the suspense, not being of that class of people who figure out the ending of a story five minutes in and then just complain of its predictability throughout the rest of it. I suppose the story is pretty predictable, knowing what I know now and having read the book about twelve times.

What does predictability matter, though, when the story is full of such overblown passion? I didn't catch any of the allusions, as I was still largely unaware of them as literary devices in the first place. But it is peppered with talk of the most exciting stories from the Bible, from Greek myth, from Persian literature, and Shakespeare, and ancient history, and science, and folklore. Even at fourteen, I sensed class, even if I couldn't identify it.

So I've discussed in a little too much depth what I thought of it at fourteen. How do I justify cherishing such a passion for this washed-out, over-adapted piece of melodrama?

It's all in the characters, of course. As a reader is meant to, I identify with Jane. Not with being "poor, obscure, plain, and little" because I'm not exactly that, but with feeling a constant battle between what I ought to do and what I want to do. At one point, Rochester said Jane "mutinied against fate"—what an interesting concept. So many stories are built upon the idea of an inescapable fate, and it seems that Charlotte Brontë's entire aim was to prove that there is no such thing, and that fate and religion (or, in Victorian vernacular, "divine providence") are impossible to reconcile. Adherence to the laws of God frees the human soul from any oppressive fate a person might feel bound to.

What a character Rochester is. (On a side note, I am now dying to see the new movie. I used to think Toby Stephens was the most fabulous casting choice anyone could have made, but when I read the part where Jane is at Gateshead and lonely and bored and starts to sketch Rochester's face, she actually described none other than Michael Fassbender. I wonder if he'll be any good.) He's such a moral mess, but he somehow makes you like him anyway, because he never tries to hide the fact that he had a succession of three very wicked relationships with very stupid women; and he saw through the superficial pride and arrogance of people like Blanche Ingram. He always had good intentions—he was just too romantic and impulsive and gregarious to go without. It's interesting how little is said about his youth, etc. but you get the impression that he was very spoiled. He is, and he never forgets it. What I really like the best about him is that he is always willing to admit when he is wrong, and willing to make amends to people when he hurts them. I think his feelings and behavior towards Adèle made an impression on Jane—his insistence that the right thing to do would be to take responsibility for her and do what he could to make her happy and healthy, in spite of his dislike of her and his distaste for the memories she invokes. It is a stark contrast to how Jane's aunt Reed treated her when she was an unwanted, friendless orphan.

As for the much-neglected St. John Rivers, I had some very interesting insights as I read about him this time. I wonder—Jane decided that it would be just as wicked to counterfeit romantic love in order to marry someone for reasons of propriety as it would be to counterfeit marriage in order to have a romantic relationship. And St. John was much more manipulative than Rochester was; he would have married her so she could be part of his own glory and ambition, rather than for the honest belief that she would be happy with him. He used every trick in the book to get her to bend to his will, from playing on her insecurities about her personal appearance, to passive-aggressive silence, to twisting her own words to imply a promise she had not really given, to forceful, almost physically violent entreaty. Compared to him, Rochester really is kind and sweet. People are fascinating. I could imagine meeting people like that.

I could keep going, but I think I've written quite enough for the present. I'm glad, though, that I read it again and could rediscover its genius.