Reading "Jane Eyre"

Forget the two-fisted Faulkner and Hardy. Tackling Charlotte Bronte's courageously romantic novel made me a better man.

By Stephen Amidon

Jun 19, 2005 | Recent research into the reading habits of men and women confirms what people in the book trade have long suspected -- women are much more adventurous in their choice of fiction than the male of the species. The study, carried out by Lisa Jardine and Annie Watkins of Queen Mary College in London, concludes that "[m]en who read fiction tend to read fiction by men, while women read fiction by both women and men." The study also finds that, with the possible exception of Jane Austen, men believe that "great literature" is only written by men.

I confess to having once suffered from this boys-only syndrome. Raised on a steady diet of Hardy, Dostoevski and Faulkner; enamored of the macho antics of Hemingway, Kerouac and Mailer, I spent my school days and early adulthood believing that the creation of serious literature was primarily a male endeavor. Women's writing was the stuff of discussion groups and beach fantasies; men's writing dealt with the big themes like existential angst and stoical heroicism. Of course, women were capable of writing beautifully and memorably, but there was always a suspicion that they were like Danica Patrick taking the lead at Indianapolis or Hillary Clinton getting ready to run for president -- women making a name for themselves in a man's world.

In other words, I was an idiot. My reeducation began a dozen years ago, when I was asked to take part in a radio presentation on Edith Wharton, a writer I'd previously assumed responsible for the "Little House on the Prairie" series. "The Custom of the Country" hooked me with its mercilessly elegant prose and mordant social satire. Four novels later I was devoted to a writer I now consider every bit as good as Henry James and far better than Sinclair Lewis or Theodore Dreiser. I understood the error of my ways. Since then, I've labored to make up for my earlier sins, recently deciding, for instance, to read "Mrs. Dalloway" instead of going back to "Crime and Punishment" for the sixth time. It is a slow, occasionally frustrating process, but I am a better man for it.

So when I was asked to take part in this series, I took it as a golden opportunity to further my remedial studies. After a brief consultation with my wife, Caryl (whose father was born and bred in Yorkshire), I decided to tackle "Jane Eyre," a product of that county's most prestigious literary clan. I had never read a word by any of the Brontës, nor had I seen the famous film version of "Jane Eyre" with Joan Fontaine and an uglied-up Orson Welles. My willful ignorance enabled me to approach this canonical text with the eyes of a child.

I started reading soon after our arrival at the house we'd rented for a week on Lake Champlain in Vermont. The plan was for the family to undertake an early-summer decompression after a long spell of work and school. My eldest daughter had just completed her junior year in high school, with its terrifying round of A.P. courses, achievement tests and social pressures. My son had finished eighth grade, which has also become alarmingly stressful in these hyper-expectant times. Both looked like they needed plenty of water sports, maple syrup and sun.

My sympathy for the rigors of my kids' lives diminished somewhat as I started to read about the orphaned Jane, cast into a harsh world of cruel relations, physical abuse, locked closets and, ultimately, the Lowood Institution for unwanted girls. And not an iPod in sight! Brontë's writing in the novel's opening chapters is so powerful that I almost brought the book into the Jacuzzi with me, though fear of dropping it into the froth and having to travel to Burlington for a new copy forced me to keep it on dry land. One of the most remarkable aspects of these vivid early scenes is their reminder that childhood as we now understand it simply did not exist in the 19th century. Children were seen as venal, inadequate little adults, in need of stern education and occasional "correction." Jane's physical and spiritual survival at pestilential Lowood is testament to her peerless strength of character, which is established through an unforgettable series of images and set pieces. Brontë's juxtaposition of her heroine's unshakable rebelliousness against the resignation of sad, ever-so-drippy Helen Burns does more to establish Jane's adamant nature than a thousand words of description.

And then, after a wonderfully under-described eight-year interval, it is off to Thornfield Hall and Jane's confrontation with its brooding master, Edward Rochester. (Brontë possesses an admirable ability to gloss over events -- long coach trips, periods of recuperation, puberty -- that do not further her narrative.) Writers constantly deal with the prospect of having their lovers "meet cute," though it is hard to imagine anyone ever topping the moment Rochester emerges before Jane out of the fog on a thundering horse, accompanied by a baying hound. He is a vision of male mystery and dash, yet the moment he is confronted by wee Jane he winds up on his ass, in need of her tiny shoulder to limp home.

Next Page: What Carrie Bradshaw has in common with Jane Eyre

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