Book Review: Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Brontë
Precursor to every modern romantic trope and an entire genre of infinitely inferior imitations. And Mr. Rochester is almost as big an asshole as Heathcliff.
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About Bronte's narrative treatment of Bertha Mason: this book is very much a product of its time, and that includes how it treats mental illness. Shutting Bertha up in the attic with an attendant actually would have been more humane than putting her in an asylum, which would have been filthy and torturous. And divorce was nearly impossible to secure until the Divorce Act of 1857. Still, you're not going to find a lot of modern sympathy for the mentally ill in books of this time period, and Jane Eyre is one of the more progressive novels of its day (especially in how it maintains that classism is not a divine right sort of thing, which was the normal thinking of the day).
Maybe this is a male vs. female thing, but I like Rochester, even though I find him skeevy. It's St. John Rivers I can't stand, but that's probably because I've known a couple of real-life clergyman who are as cold, jerky, and self-righteous as he is. I'd rather take rude and brooding over that any day.
If you're still interested in the Brontes, you might want to try The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte. She uses a framed narrative like Emily does, but she's much more on Charlotte's level, though she's a bit more didactic about gender roles. But you'd probably appreciate how she manages to portray an abusive marriage with the normal warning signs, but without treading into Lifetime Movie-of-the-Week waters.
...And you just reminded me that I have a paper and presentation due on these lovely authors on Thursday.
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