The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Bronte, by Syrie James
I rather enjoyed this book, but not enough to keep it. I kept tripping over modern phrases (at one point "today is the first day of the rest of our lives" was used!) that just put me off. And it's hard to know how much of the novelization of a real person's life is based on research and how much is creative license, which was guaranteed to drive an anal retentive like me crazy.
On the other hand, it was fun to read about the lives of the Bronte siblings and see how much of what they experienced went into their novels. I was also happy to have the reminder that Charlotte Bronte wrote 2 other books after "Jane Eyre" that I've always meant to look up and read ("Shirley" and "Villette", for those interested).
Of all the book, I esp. liked this bit about a spinster's evolving view of love from the romantic slush of her imagination to something more realistic:
Diary, when I first began to write these pages a year ago, my life had been thrown into a maelstrom of turmoil and confusion, occasioned by Mr. Nicholls's unexpected proposal of marriage. Over the past twelve months, I have sought the comfort of memory and pen to help me understand the past, in the hopes that it might help guide me into the future.
Now, I find that I can put off my decision no longer. My inner voice will not keep still. It cries: "Can I be a wife?" More importantly: "Can I be his wife -- for all eternity?"
My cheeks grow warm as I pen these words; I am ashamed to admit it, diary, but I am a little disappointed that I do not feel the kind of passion for Mr. Nicholls that I have always imagined a heroine should feel for a hero. Where is the tense anticipation of the next treasured meeting, the bated breath, the flying into one another's arms at first sight, the wildly beating heart and frantic meeting of lips? When Mr. Nicholls looks at me, when he touches my hand, I do not feel the thrill that I believe a lover's look and touch ought to instill.
Yet, at the same time, I have come to feel a true esteem and affection for Mr. Nicholls. He is a dear man. With all that I have learned during his recent ten-day visit, many of my doubts regarding our incompatibility have been assuaged. it means a great deal to me that he knew my brother and loved my sisters, and had promised to help care for my aging father. Is it not better to secure the fidelity of such a man, and to relieve a suffering and faithful heart, than to unfeelingly abandon one so truly attached, to pursue some vain, empty shadow?
I am grateful for Mr. Nicholls's tender love to me. I believe it possible that I can learn to love him in time.
Providence in His goodness and wisdom have offered me this destiny; it must, then, be the best for me.
On the other hand, it was fun to read about the lives of the Bronte siblings and see how much of what they experienced went into their novels. I was also happy to have the reminder that Charlotte Bronte wrote 2 other books after "Jane Eyre" that I've always meant to look up and read ("Shirley" and "Villette", for those interested).
Of all the book, I esp. liked this bit about a spinster's evolving view of love from the romantic slush of her imagination to something more realistic:
Diary, when I first began to write these pages a year ago, my life had been thrown into a maelstrom of turmoil and confusion, occasioned by Mr. Nicholls's unexpected proposal of marriage. Over the past twelve months, I have sought the comfort of memory and pen to help me understand the past, in the hopes that it might help guide me into the future.
Now, I find that I can put off my decision no longer. My inner voice will not keep still. It cries: "Can I be a wife?" More importantly: "Can I be his wife -- for all eternity?"
My cheeks grow warm as I pen these words; I am ashamed to admit it, diary, but I am a little disappointed that I do not feel the kind of passion for Mr. Nicholls that I have always imagined a heroine should feel for a hero. Where is the tense anticipation of the next treasured meeting, the bated breath, the flying into one another's arms at first sight, the wildly beating heart and frantic meeting of lips? When Mr. Nicholls looks at me, when he touches my hand, I do not feel the thrill that I believe a lover's look and touch ought to instill.
Yet, at the same time, I have come to feel a true esteem and affection for Mr. Nicholls. He is a dear man. With all that I have learned during his recent ten-day visit, many of my doubts regarding our incompatibility have been assuaged. it means a great deal to me that he knew my brother and loved my sisters, and had promised to help care for my aging father. Is it not better to secure the fidelity of such a man, and to relieve a suffering and faithful heart, than to unfeelingly abandon one so truly attached, to pursue some vain, empty shadow?
I am grateful for Mr. Nicholls's tender love to me. I believe it possible that I can learn to love him in time.
Providence in His goodness and wisdom have offered me this destiny; it must, then, be the best for me.