The Wandering Muse

Book Musing: Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë

2005-07-27T01:39:00.000+03:00

(Please note that this is not a review, but that I will be examining the book at length. There will be spoilers.)

When I was in grade 8, the entire class was given a month long project that revolved around reading The Hobbit. However, for us four lucky folks that had already discovered and read that book, we were assigned what I assumed were more 'advanced' books - older classics that had more archaic language and less fun subjects than fantasy creatures tromping off to kill dragons. I was not pleased, and I was even less pleased when I was assigned Jane Eyre. I was disgusted at being assigned what I thought of as a 'girl's' book and proceeded to hate every minute of it and wish I had been assigned Oliver Twist instead, like one of the other kids.

I probably should have been assigned that book instead of him; he didn't seem to like it at all (and I when I read it recently I learned that I have just the sense of humour to appreciate it), and I certainly wasn't in a mindset to appreciate my assignment. It was until recently, when I was ranting about Jane Eyre to a friend of mine, that I considered giving it another chance. It was that friend mentioning Jane's rebellion against her aunt, a truly memorable part of the book, and I had absolutely no recollection of it! A while later I came across a mention of Jane Eyre being a 'gothic horror', and I knew then I had to rediscover what my 13-year-old mind couldn't appreciate.

Last month I set out to re-read the book and unsurprisingly, it was a much different book than I remembered. I had vaguely remembered that Jane had a bad childhood; what I did not remember was the emotional hell her aunt and cousins put her through. I found myself nearly in tears reading how Jane was punished for not acting like a spoiled monster, but for being quiet and thoughtful. I was definitely dabbing at my eyes when the apothecary had his talk with Jane in her sickbed, and later when Jane has gone to school and has to endure the hypocrisy of the headmaster and then her friend dying of consumption.

As the book proceeded I remained engaged, even through the quiet times; Brontë had a talent for giving the reader just enough of a hint of danger and mystery to keep them going. As for Jane herself, she also stayed engaging to me. For all she is hampered by the mores of her time, she is written with enough personality and mind to keep me cheering for her. Although I found myself frustrated with Jane for holding back her feelings for Mr. Rochester out of fear, I realized that it was more frustration with the regulations of the time than with Jane herself - mostly. Jane has repeatedly experienced the silliness and injustice of the social mores of her day and occasionally had enough heart to rebel against them, so I found it more than a bit annoying that she often would not stand up for herself until she was pushed nearly over the edge. I recently saw Jane described as a masochist, and I completely agree - at some points (especially during the latter part of the book) Jane almost seems to revel in her pain.

I also felt pity for Mr. Rochester, even after his big secret is revealed. He practically has to hit Jane over the head with his advances (in many varied and creative ways) before she gathers her own courage to love him in return. Of course, this is when everything goes downhill, rapidly.

Jane shows her masochistic tendencies again when she visits her dying aunt. Much of her behaviour is truly good, in her ability to forgive, but some of it, like staying with the spoiled Georgiana for an extended period of time, seems to be suffering for the sake of suffering. Jane tries to say she is doing the right thing, even though it is obvious (to me) that the best thing for Georgiana would be for her to have to rely on herself for once.

Rochester's secret is the big mystery of the book in more ways than one. It isn't just the mystery written down in the book - who is Grace Poole, and why is she still in the house if she is so dangerous? - but rather, why Rochester dealt with his wife the way he did. The concept of being forced into a marriage and then actually be too rich to readily get out of it is foreign to this 21st century reader, although Rochester's wild flight from the madwoman he married is understandable, if not commendable. I can also understand that he kept her a secret, as marriage to a madwoman could be damaging in that era. What I do not understand, however, is why he dealt with her the way he did - by locking her up in the house under a lone guard. Unfortunately, I do not know enough about the systems of the day to know if he could have sent her to a madhouse or received a divorce or anything like that. I do have an inkling that even if such things were available in general terms, they may have been ruinous to someone in his position - but then, would it have really been worse to have been 'ruined' to have continually lived under what was effectively a curse?

The madwoman herself is a mystery to me. I'm shown that she is violent, murderously so; Rochester mentions that she has foul habits, speech, and pleasures, but there are no examples of this horror. Perhaps to the Regency or Victorian era reader this was enough information for their imaginations to spin shuddering evil from, especially as insanity was a terribly fearful thing for them anyhow, but it is not enough for this 21st century reader. All that I was really shown is that Bertha is homocidal and I have to take Rochester's word at what a horrible monster she is, and despite my pity for him, I don't find him to be precisely reliable. After being married off to a man who refused to have anything to do with her and then locked her in an attic for years, the woman has good reason to be homocidal! I feel this is an area where Brontë was perhaps trying to be a bit too subtle and ended up going overboard. At the point of the revelation I felt considerably less pity for Rochester and quite a lot for both poor Jane and the madwoman - possibly more pity for Bertha than I am supposed to hold, for I have a strong feeling that Rochester brought a lot of Bertha's violent attempts on his life on himself.

At this point I started losing some patience with the book. Jane's eventual flight from the manor is understandable even though it is incredibly stupid - she has just been betrayed, what little name and standing she had achieved for herself nearly ruined, and it may have been ruined anyhow if word got out, which would mean a life of struggling poverty for her. However, her four days of flight until she collapses on the Rivers' doorstep quickly becomes overdramatic. It is not because of the difficulties Jane faces, having to beg; those are heartrending. No, what is overdramatic is how she starts moaning about being near death and that she is sure to die if the Rivers' turn her away. Four days of flight, two of which are in a carriage, and two of which are without food, in the summer, made by a woman in miserable spirits but good health - and yet, she is somehow about to die after this, and takes two weeks to recover. I found this utterly ridiculous and thought that Brontë did Jane a terrible injustice by making a girl who had been surprisingly tough before into someone with less strength than a literal kitten.

This marks a transition into a part of the book that quickly became tedious. Jane's new friends (and as it turns out, cousins) Diana and Mary are delightful, if one-dimensional, but St. John drove me up the wall. Jane keeps insisting that he is a good man, even though, to me, he is obviously a stubborn, self-righteous twat. Rather than return the affections of the girl he is enamored of or even let her down gently, he becomes stone-faced in front of her, apparently trying to drive her away by acting like an ass. He seems to have 'plans' for Jane from the start - all of his behaviour I found incredibly creepy, even though Jane does her best to justify it. St. John is the sadist to Jane's masochist, for sure - for all the text tried to convince me that he was good merely because he was trying to force Jane to marry him and be his curate in the name of Church works. It is that very forcing, his unwillingness to take into account what Jane wants or even needs because he feels it is secondary to what he wants. He is so blinded by seeking glory for his Church that he is willing to trample the life of one damaged girl underfoot for it. Jane, being a masochist, takes it and takes it, describing at great lengths how she didn't want to but how she just couldn't help herself, and her cardboard cutout female cousins are oblivious the whole time.

St. John's unwillingness to forgive Jane for doing what she feels she needs to do clenches my view of him as a sadist, and an arrogant one at that. Despite how 'good' he is and despite the forgiveness doctrines taught by his church, he ignores Jane (and it seems he knows perfectly well it will hurt her) and treats her poorly, even after she discovers her inheritance and does the truly good thing by sharing it with her cousins. He much like an abusive spouse will do to a mate that has refused to bow to their will - perhaps he is jealous that Jane is, in her way, far more 'good' than he, with his need to control, can ever be.

I think that it is probable that, even though Jane, Diana, and Mary see St. John as being 'good', his creepy, oppressive behaviour is as much a criticism of the Church of the time as Mr. Brocklehurst's hypocrisy is. It is harder to tell than with Brocklehurt, however; young Jane actually showed a spike of indignation at the injustice she recieved at Brocklehurst's hands, but the older Jane suffers, and suffers, and suffers before she she shows any inclination to stand up for herself.

I nearly cheered when Jane finally wriggled out from under St. John's thumb and made up her mind to seek out Mr. Rochester again. The little bit of mysticalness in her hearing Rochester call out to her seemed fitting, and the Jane that sets forth to find her love is much more enjoyable than the little submissive that I had to read about for far too many pages.

In the end, I am happy that Jane is happy, and that Rochester may not have recieved exactly what he deserved, but he did get punishment, and he redeemed himself by being willing to sacrifice himself to get every last person out of the burning manor. It was probably a partially suicidal impulse, considering how he loved Jane and then thought he would never get her back, but despite his treatment of Bertha, he wasn't a monster, either.

I can only attribute my hatred of Jane Eyre after my first reading to youthful stupidity. Despite the parts that glaringly annoyed me, it is a solid piece of writing, and Brontë taught me a thing or three about evoking emotions and mystery.

Third time is the charm.

2005-07-24T01:00:00.000+03:00

This is the third time I've started this blog. I had wanted to have - well, not exactly a public face to the world, but something more focused than my personal journal. My first two attempts failed because they were focusing on things that didn't have a direction for me. The obvious finally occured to me, however - I should focus on my first true love, words.

No kidding, here; I learned to read when I was 3 and would read absolutely everything I could. It's been more than love, really, as it's had strong aspects of compulsion and obsession. If I saw text, I absolutely had to read it. I'd sit and read the text on cereal boxes, cans, whatever I could see when at the table at meals, until I became old enough to get away with bringing a book with me, because stories were always much better than any old text.

Stories have been what it's all about for me for the past 23 years. Introverted and shy (and as I later found out, fitting with the symptoms of Asperger's Syndrome very closely), I practically lived in books as a child. Even video games could only hold my attention for a week at most before the novelty wore off unless they had a good story to go with it.

Just as good as (and sometimes even better than) reading stories was making them up myself. Many an epic tale was enacted with the aid of dolls, plush animals, and various bits of household furniture or Mother Nature. Sometimes I'd even write them down, although all of the longer attempts were never finished because I never had a reason to finish them, nor did I think I could ever actually find an end to them, or continue writing the stories longhand for long enough to find that end. I was told that I wrote well by teachers, but it never occured to me that there might be something there for me.

Years passed and I continued to devour the stories of others and make up my own in my head. Sometimes I'd share them with others through role-playing, mostly freeform through IRC. I would sometimes think of trying to write more, especially once I had a computer, but it wasn't until 2002 came along and many of my friends joined National Novel Writing Month did I find the right incentive - or rather, challenge. 50,000 words in a month.

I did it, and again the year after. That was the point that I started to think that maybe I could really do something with this. I did in fact do a little, some freelance ghost writing for miserable pay and some volunteer writing for an e-zine called Woodworks that I really enjoyed, but my stories mostly languished. I was, to be frank, scared of what I had written. I finally forced myself to print out my first NaNoWriMo novel and read it - first time I had seen the words since I had typed them - and was shocked by what I saw. It was... pretty good.

But they still languished. I wrote a continuation of the first novel for the 2004 NaNoWriMo and a couple of short stories, and nothing else. I'm still kind of scared, to be honest. Not of getting rejected, as such... but of succeeding. I don't know why, but the thought of having one of my stories published terrifies me as much as it excites me. Thing is... I don't think I can keep living and not try to get something published. I've found what I need to do with my life.

Now I need to make myself move forward with it - hence, this blog. I realized I needed to start analyzing my feelings and the process of writing in the way I think best, the written word, and I would do well to also analyze the writing and stories of others. By looking at how the stories of other people work, I can better understand how to make mine work. Writing about writing to help myself begin writing - sounds a bit off, doesn't it? But I think I've hit on the very thing that will help me best, aside from good old Butt-In-Chair.

I chose to also make these musings and reflections public because I've found through a few years of keeping a personal online journal that the feedback of other people can be invaluable, and there is always the chance that my reflections will help someone else, as the writing of many other people online has helped me in various ways.

If you want to look for me elsewhere, search under the names Renee Bail, Ren Bail, or R. Bail. I prefer to go by Ren, use the original Latin form Renatus as my online handle, and use R. Bail as my 'author' name.

... I didn't intend this to be nearly so long, but there, you see, I've dammed up the words so long that they flood whenever I give them a release. Please pardon any strange writing, I am very tired at this hour.

A side note about my title and url name - I have been called a "muse" by my good friend Sylvia Leung of Wish3, a title I hold very dear. I am proud of the help I've been able to give her with the story Wish3, and not a ltitle awed that I've been able to be a truly useful part of something I enjoy and hold in high esteem. I use the title here to remind myself of what I am capable of - good ideas.