It has been too long. Way too long. Unintentionally long.
I'm sorry, faithful readers (if any, apart from my wonderful
friends). My brilliant organizational skills combined with being in a new
country, having to take care of my own laundry, and understanding college life
have kept me occupied, although I have thought so many times of ideas that
would make good blog posts that I have enough material for a while now, whether
or not I get the time to read a lot.
Sorry for that painfully long sentence. I have really missed
blogging.
I have had a number of experiences, wonderful and a little less
wonderful, in the past one and a half months. I've seen the Niagara Falls
twice, attended a fabulous play on Kasturba Gandhi, heard a magnificent concert
on Romeo and Juliet by the Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra, been late to class
when I tried to cook upma,
appalled my mom with the condition of my room when she visited, attended a garba event for Dussehra...
Having started this post yesterday, and twice before that, I think
I now have an idea why I have been failing at this the past two months. I have
always been terrible in writing on my life or thoughts in general - I go
rambling on and on and never get anywhere. I need a focus - a particular
incident or topic - and then words will just pour from me effortlessly. They
usually need editing, but I can work with them.
So for this post...
Lately, one of my earlier posts on this blog (one of the earliest)
has been haunting me. I compared Charlotte Bronte unfavourably to Jane Austen,
saying Bronte could never match up to Austen in my estimation. I feel now that
I was unfair and rather hypocritical. What bought on this reflection? Recently,
I came across a Jane Eyre vlog on Youtube in the style of the
immensely popular Lizzie Bennet Diaries, and today I watched the 1996 movie
version of Jane Eyre. This got
me thinking about my post, and about the first few times I had read Jane Eyre (I rarely read a book only once).
The book had me completely engrossed, and there was a time when I re-read
certain passages in the book numerous times. My opinion of the book could, of
course, have changed; but I went back to the book and re-read those same passages,
and I realized that it hasn't, really. I really like Jane Eyre.
So what bought on that post? One of the book bloggers I really
admire, Claire from the thecaptivereader.wordpress.com, dislikes Jane Eyre. At the time I
decided to blog regularly, I was reading rather a lot of The Captive Reader,
and she puts things so well that I suppose I convinced myself about the deep
flaws in the book. I do this sometimes when I really admire someone, and I
don't do it consciously. I imbibe their opinions and convince myself that
they're mine.
What was wrong with my post? First and foremost, Austen and Bronte
simply cannot be compared. They were different people who wrote in different
contexts in utterly different styles about very different things. An Austen romance
is worlds away from a Bronte romance, which of course does not necessarily make
one better than the other.
Second, I was unjustified both in my evaluation of Rochester and
in saying there is no humour in Jane Eyre.
Mr. Rochester is the male protagonist that every wannabe dark
romance has been trying to imitate for a while now. Wounded, cynical, witty,
impolite in a very attention-grabbing way, and in need of love from a wonderful
female creature who is whole, good and innocent enough to recover his faith in
humanity, reform him and temper his cynicism all at once. This female creature
manages to be sympathetic and relatable and not quite a paragon of virtue
because of her passion. While I might find Rochester a tad intimidating in real
life, he is somehow very magnetic in the book. Maybe this is because,
despite his occasional despotism and dominance, he comes across as capable of
loving very deeply. When Rochester explains things to Jane after she has found
out he is already married, I forgive him as immediately as Jane. I find it
impossible to think of him as manipulative, scheming and deceitful. With his
own twisted, desperate logic, Rochester sincerely believes that he would do no
wrong in marrying Jane. The second time I read this book (when I was actually
old enough to understand it, this time) I actually found myself wondering
whether Rochester was right. What harm would it do to anybody if Jane stayed
with him? She has no one to judge her and he cannot be with Bertha anyway.
However, he had no right to keep Jane in the dark and expect her
to break the law.
I'm getting sidetracked. I'll keep the psychoanalysis for another
post. What I meant to say is that Rochester is a suitably likable and
attractive male lead. While reading the book I did not find it repulsive that
they are so far apart in age (although when I consider it objectively I do)!
As for humour, Jane Eyre is not a humorous book, but it has
dialogue between Jane and Rochester that is witty and entertaining. I said that
'Mr. Rochester and Jane don't ever seem to converse without undertones of something.' Don't conversations
between any romantic pair have undertones? Besides, Jane
Eyre is one of those rare romantic books where you can actually see the characters falling in love. Their whole relationship is built on
good conversation (since neither has
any sort of good looks, or so we're told). Finally, it was
hypocritical of me to pretend that I read Jane Eyre in a dispassionate way,
liking it just 'well enough'. I read it like I read every other book, head over
heels. And surely there was something in the book that warranted this
liking?
I'm not saying Jane
Eyre is completely wonderful
and flawless. But it deserves admiration for a number of things, including an
absorbing story (except for when Jane is with the Rivers, and it seems to drag
on interminably till she meets Rochester again), very unique protagonists, and
the simple fact that it generally has a large impact on the reader (I know it
did on me).
I also realize now that that post was a little
bit from indignation at the things Bronte said about Austen. It was a lot
easier to disparage an author who had the impertinence and bad taste to dislike
Austen. Kidding. About the bad taste. But it certainly coloured my opinion.
And with this I shall stop for now, and I promise
I will never bring this up again.
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