There is something incredible about this book. There’s a romanticism in it, rarely found anywhere in the modern world, but painstakingly documented here.

Much like Jane’s life, this book was difficult but ultimately rewarding.

Much too, you will think, reader, to engender jealousy: if a woman, in my position, could presume to be jealous of a woman in Miss Ingram’s. But I was not jealous: or very rarely; — the nature of the pain I suffered could not be explained by that word. Miss Ingram was a mark beneath jealousy: she was too inferior to excite the feeling. Pardon the seeming paradox; I mean what I say. She was very showy, but she was not genuine: she had a fine person, many brilliant attainments; but her mind was poor, her heart barren by nature: nothing bloomed spontaneously on that soil; no unforced natural fruit delighted by its freshness. She was not good; she was not original: she used to repeat sounding phrases from books: she never offered, nor had, an opinion of her own. She advocated a high tone of sentiment; but she did not know the sensations of sympathy and pity; tenderness and truth were not in her.

You go, girl.

Any lover of romantic stories should read this classic. The prose of course is not of the modern clear style, but it is still beautiful.

There are twobooks I want to read whose plots rely on a knowledge of Jane Eyre. Which seems a bit like putting cart before horse, but never mind.

A little too wordy and overwrought in places, but I couldn’t put it down.

Very good