In Defence of my Criticism

Shannon has claimed that I can't possibly know how bad of a book Jane Eyre is, because I've never read it. Ladies and gentlemen, I'm here to refute that.

I believe that slogging your way through 100 pages of a book is certainly enough to state that it is terrible. From "There was no possibility of taking a walk that day," right on to "Amen, even so, come, Lord Jesus," we have hundreds of pages of long, wordy, pointless passages about her terrible lot in life. Right off the bat, she's griping about the rain keeping her from a walk. Her aunt and uncle are cruel to her, she is sent to an orphanage, they are mean to her. The feed her burnt porridge. Her only friend dies. She is penny less. She is proposed to, by her cousin. She meets a nice man who proposes. Oh, wait, he's actually married and keeps his wife locked up in the attic. It's not that having a terrible life necessarily leads to a terrible book, it's that we have to have hundreds of pages of wallowing in her misery. Ms. Eyre has an inability to form concise sentences or scenes.

I will compare her to a contemporary: Jane Austin. Austin's books are lighter in mood, and faster in pace. The book is shorter, and somehow, more stuff happens. There are more characters that we care more about. Austin proves herself capable of witty banter, and comedy along with her social commentary and girly high society marriage plots. Back ground plots and clever social arrangements keep us guessing. But Jane Eyre, oh, we know what's going to happen to her. Tragedy. Over and over again. For 500 pages.