Jane Eyre

So here I am, reading through the English classics while around me my world spins promising new landscapes, new people, and the lure of uncertainty.
It's much too late and I should be sleeping, but I've just finished reading Jane Eyre, another one of those classics by female writers, and what a book it is! I had just to write something about it whilst it's still fresh in my mind, this feeling of exhilaration on coming across genius.

I watched the film a few years ago and was sort of unimpressed. It seemed the usual tricks of sensationalist mixes: God awful schools, uncaring step-parents, lunatics and so on.
The book is nothing like that though, a well deserved classic. The pacing, the situations, the characters are right. On reading it, there is this strange feeling. You have to keep reminding yourself that it is a work of fiction, because the blend of character observation, and introspection on the part of the narration, and scene description...I don't know what it is, really, but this book lives, 150 years after it was written, in a way that most books don't even come close to. Jane Eyre seems a real person, flesh and blood. I have finished this book with the distinct impression of having learned of something real.

So much to learn. People out there so good at this craft, so accomplished, and here's little me.
As always, I keep writing, and reading. As I said in one of my very first posts, when it comes to writing, effort is no sacrifice, work is not work.

Not when there are books like Jane Eyre around.