Hello to all plastic flowers on lawns, books in bookcases, keyboard people, CDs under entertainment units, and long-forgotten boxes of tea.
I thought Jane Eyre would be at least sort of interesting, but it isn’t. The movie might be better, but if it’s ever made again, I’ll not only try to get them to let me play Jane but I’ll also suggest I get a sword and kill Mr. Rochester, and Mrs. Fairfax, and etc. Jane Eyre turns into ‘Serial Killer Jane Eyre.’
Anyway. I’m starting to lose faith in the classics– not like I’ve read them really, but I’m just saying. I tried reading Wuthering Heights, and I SWEAR, I might as well have been reading the tales of Gibberish Land with people who speak this weird language that’s almost English, sort of. Jane Eyre at least makes sense, even if it’s chronically boring. The only reason I’m still reading it is that I really like Jane and there’s a crazy lady on the third floor.
Oh, and don’t even get me started on Great Expectations. My expectations were not ‘great’ to start out with, but by the time Pip was wandering around in Mrs. Havisham’s house my expectations were ‘not remotely great.’ Nothing happens! IN ANY OF THESE BOOKS! For God’s sake, where are the dragons and goblins and like, interesting conversation? ‘Come for tea at six, Jane.’ ‘Yes, sir.’ Well, then.
Am I bitter? It just occurred to me.
Well, listen, if I was a writer in the nineteenth century, my novels would be less confusing and dull. The first chapter wouldn’t be ‘There was no possibility of taking a walk that day, and therefore, no possibility of anything exciting happening to me, so I’ll just go inside and think about things and a book will be thrown at my head. To me that is very exciting. In fact, it is the most exciting thing that will ever happen to me, but more on that later, after three hundred pages of descriptions of thoughts and loneliness…’
Maybe the main reason that all the classics seem so boring to me is that they’re hard to understand, and also that I can’t enjoy anything that doesn’t have swordfighting and demons and things. Even Frankenstein couldn’t be interesting, and that’s saying something I think, since it’s about a giant monster and a terrified village and all that.
I might argue that books these days can be just as boring, if not more boring– at least Victorian novels have an air of romanticism and melodrama– so maybe it’s just me, unappreciative of anything without bloody gory demon fighting and vampire slaying and etc., etc.
Anyway, back to Jane Eyre– non serial-killer Jane Eyre– I’ll go. Yours truly, sincerely, non-sincerely, and untruly, Onceabasementdog.