In elementary school, around 4th grade, I decided to read “good” books and got about half way through “Jane Eyre” before giving up. I couldn’t take:
- All the untranslated French.
- All the moodiness and brooding of of an idealized mid-19th century romance. At least Mr. Rochester doesn’t dazzle in the sunlight, sparkling like a million Cubic Zirconia on the tiara of a toddler beauty pageant winner, the way literature’s current emo vampire lead does.
I’ve read the novel all the way through for school, but in my head I like to leave the story when Jane sets off for her new governess position, just as her life has taken a fortunate and open-ended turn.