And there were all these reviews! From people saying it was better than Jane Eyre! What! I don’t get it. At all. George Eliot, were you smoking something when you read this?
Maybe I just wasn’t in the mood for it, but Lucy Snowe < Jane Eyre. I mean, I didn’t even need to have read Jane Eyre to dislike Lucy as a narrator. And apparently this is actually the second version of this story that Brontë published? (It’s a reworking of her novel, The Professor.) And it’s sort of thinly autobiographical? But I. Do. Not. Get. It.
Lucy is an orphan, and she is incredibly passive. She never has any thoughts about anything, just relays things that other people are doing around her. I listened to this as an audiobook, and while I enjoyed the narrator’s voice, I kept tuning out because the content made my brain retreat into its shell like some sort of sleepy mollusk. And don’t even get me started on the ending, which I also (of course) do not understand. What is the point of it. She loves this asshole guy, and he’s gone for three years (the happiest of her life, she says) and then hints that he dies???? But doesn’t tell us for sure. (She also regularly hides things from the reader, even though nothing is going on most of the time and we could use a little entertainment.)
Lucy Snowe is an asshole.
This book was not for me.