I have read and reread Jane Eyre many times in my life. As a child, teenager, young woman. This time the book invited me to reread her while I was on a trip to London. I was sitting in what felt to me (40 something somewhat dowdy professor-lady) like an impossibly cool art/bar/vibey space in Peckham that thankfully had bookshelves with used books available to read. With a glass of wine I spotted Jane Eyre, scooped her up, and found a spot in a corner of the warehouse to enjoy the atmosphere with none of the interaction. And then I read about Jane using books and hiding spots to protect herself – obviously different than my own social choices as a grown person in a safe environment. When I got home I took my own copy down from my bookshelf and read it in a few days.
I still love it, but as the years pass I increasingly grow more and more horrified at how the poor young woman was groomed and at just how harsh the world can be to children and young people – because she was a young person. Barely an adult. And yet…I don’t know that I can’t trust Jane the narrator who is telling us directly that her life is what she wants. I am left this time very conflicted – my trust in Jane and her thoughtful, discerning eye on the world and my deep concern for the way her life was shaped by horrible people, a harsh unforgiving economic and class system, and an older man intent on getting his way. I have little in common with Jane in many ways and yet her instinct to turn to the corners, to sit with her thoughts and books, to walk through her feelings, to create meaning through her art, have been a part of how I have come to know the world around me for as long as I can remember. So I trust her and worry for her and will learn new ways to worry for her again next time. My worn, illustrated 1943 copy is going back on the shelf for now very glad she found me again at the start of this year.
