It would seem that I've been corrupted - or rather, it would seem that I have finally banished my obstinate 15-year-old self. I confess: I adore Jane Eyre
and am hard pressed to put it down again. I started it last night after finishing Turn of the Screw
- with which I was rather unimpressed, I'm saddened to admit; it worked on some levels as a ghost story, but felt rather...incomplete, perhaps? Though demon children are never amiss in a novel, to be sure - and, returning to the subject of Jane Eyre
, I've been unable to stop thinking about it. How could I hate it? I recall thinking Jane sanctimonious and dull; why didn't I see that, far from that, she's complex and interesting and basically strong
in an odd, but deep way. Jane is a deeply sympathetic character to me now; and the romance! How well buildt up it is! It seems obvious - Rochester always just on the brink
of admitting his feelings, but holding back. I can't believe I thought the book dispassionate before - was I unable to read English? What kind of idiot was I when I was 15 (one wonders, one truly does, how I managed to ensnare Freya at the time).
This is not to say that the book is without fault. It's not; some of the passages are distinctly clumsy; and one cannot help but think about poor Bertha, but still. So romantic! So well-written (I swear, the langauge has me as ensnared as Jane herself)! I can't help feeling though, that I shouldn't find it as romantic as I do - it feels a bit too much like giving in - but I can't help it. It catches you and keeps you there, for the very first meeting on the moor, right up to when they confess their feelings. And yes, it's dramatic and perhaps overdone, but it just *waves hand incoherently* all the right spots. All the right spots.
(By the by, I am typing this while Jane and Rochester are still happy in their ignorance of Mason's return to England - I'm almost loathe to pick up and start reading again - I want Jane to be happy! But I know I must, because the ending - oh, the ending! also, the matter of having a seminar on the subject on Thursday. But mostly because of the ending
Forgive the inelegant segue, but I wanted to post these while the internet is inclined to cooperate, so here we go.
It is sad to note that I can go into sex shops with narry a blush; I can request NC-17 movies without averting my eyes; I can discuss fic and kinks with Sofie in public without much embaressment and yet, when I have to venture into an HMV to buy a Michael Ball CD, I'm half tempted to pay someone to do it for me. But he's cheesy
. And he was in Eurovision, dammit. And I shouldn't even like him as Marius, because he's oddly pompous, but he's also sweet and dorky and he blushes when Grantaire flirts with him and I own my shame, okay?
It helps that his version of Tell Me on a Sunday
makes me wonderfully pensive and his version of Show Me
never ceases to be hilarious (this is possibly mostly because I imagine him doing all of Audrey Hepburn's movements at the same time, and that's just funny). But I also kind of like those two (and Losing My Mind
, which is totally the reason I bought the CD in the first place) because they're female songs. Or, rather, they're meant to be sung by women in their respective musicals and somehow them being sung by a man seems - well, not subversive, but pleasing, on some level. Hah! Not only women pine for calm and peaceful break-ups. Or something; I don't know exactly why, but it just pleases me. And now I shall stop babbling and present you with:( Music! )
And now I'll return to Jane. Or possibly bed. 1 I know it's not fact, but the thought makes me happy! Leave me alone!