Jane Eyre is
not a piece of literature I would read on my own. After pouring through its
pages, digesting its material and contemplating its overall themes, I can say
with certainty that I did not dislike the book. Yet Charlotte Bronte’s eminent
work is certainly not a text I would have ever engaged in without prompting for
class. The emotions I feel towards this book are difficult to coherently
express. Essentially, Jane Eyre, like
Wuthering Heights or any of Jane
Austen’s works, are a stark departure from any writing which I happily consume.
However, I do not regret the time I spent with the book, and I have left it
with gripes as well as rewards.
Bronte’s work is a long, continuing, seemingly infinite
hunk of literature. There were many nights where I sat on my bed and attempted
to speed-read (at which I struggled) in an attempt to meet the reading
deadline. I narrowly finished the novel, but not before its walls upon walls of
text effectively marred my attitude towards it. If I had to proclaim my one
single issue with Jane Eyre, it is
length, with numerous instances of a plodding pace and unnecessary passages. In
many ways, Bronte establishes a fairly strong atmosphere and competent
verisimilitude with the amount of description and accounts which she provides.
At the end of the day, though, how much do I really care about Adele’s
preparedness for a party or the current state of affairs in Whitown? The
answer: very little. But that is, of course, my opinion.
I suppose one of the main factors which draw the length
of the novel to such an extent is Jane’s first-person perspective and her
incessant interior monologues. Do not misunderstand me: I am fine with Jane
reflecting and thinking about her experiences during the plot. However, Bronte
writes Jane’s thoughts as in-depth inquiries into the most miniscule and
unimportant of subjects. An example follows: “whereas, I distinctly behold his
figure, and I inevitably recall the moment when I last saw it; just after I had
rendered him, what he deemed, an essential service, and he, holding my hand,
looking down on my face, surveyed me with eyes that revealed a heart full and
eager to overflow; in whose emotions I had a part.” (Bronte 128) That is some
quite lovely prose, sure. Yet I, as a teenage male who rarely entertains such
thoughts or considerations as those expressed by Jane throughout the book, have
quite a conflict with it. Certainly, I may be sexist or cynical or both in this
opinion. But when asking myself why progression within Jane Eyre was so sluggish, I continually came back to a conclusion
of intensely feminine monologues and subject matter.
In some passages, Bronte writes a fair amount of inner
thought before finishing with a mundane and commonplace action. Jane “lingered
at the gates; I lingered on the lawn; I paced backwards and forwards on the
pavement; the shutters of the glass door were closed; I could not see into the
interior; and both my eyes and spirit seemed drawn from the gloomy house…”
(Bronte 86). Such thought continues for a time. Finally, at the end of the
dreary paragraph, Jane “opened a side-door, and went in.”
I suppose I keep getting tripped up at how Bronte’s
writing seems to compound its effects over time. Though I am having difficulty
expressing just how unnecessary portions of Jane
Eyre’s passages are, I affirm my statement with certainty. Bits and pieces
of text over the prolonged course of Bronte’s work, occasional observations of
Mr. Rochester’s “raven black” hair, and Jane’s espousing of personal philosophy
and dogma all combine into an unwieldy reading experience.
I was definitely engaged at times by the text. I came
away from Jane Eyre pleased. I had
received a hearty dosage of Bronte writing, with moody environments and
emotional characters. I had experienced an interesting social circumstance,
though one which I have difficulty relating to (the life of a nineteenth-century
governess). The romance between Jane and Mr. Rochester, of all things within
the text, kept me reading and mentally occupied. The dynamic of their
relationship, their interactions and conversations, provided the greatest
amount of enjoyment for me. With the ending pages of the book, I left Jane Eyre on a positive note, happy to
have seen such an extensive, if not arduous, piece of literature to the end.
