30 Books in 30 Beach Days Day 8: "Jane Eyre"
I was talking with my family the other day and was appalled to hear them say a phrase so hateful to an English major’s ears: Victorian novels are all the same.
Blasphemy! How can Elizabeth Bennet, Jane Eyre, or Catherine Earnshaw be painted with the same brush? How can Pride and Prejudice be called “the same” as Northanger Abbey or Persuasion? The character studies are immensely different; the influences (gothic, satire, etc.) vastly different; the structures vastly different. Victorian novels are, generally, amazing because they tell stories that were rare and different for their time. They are early examples of empowered female heroines. They are, in many ways, perfectly crafted novels.
But, if I’m being honest, when many of these plotlines are boiled down to their most basic elements, I understand where my family members were coming from: belabored but privileged heroine falls in love with misunderstood man. Trouble ensues. Happily ever after.
I could see how this formula could be applied to several of Austen’s books, to some of Eliot’s, even to a smattering of Dickens’. And while it still holds in some ways for Jane Eyre, that novel follows such a uniquely dark story—without crossing over into horror or magical realism, the way Wuthering Heights sometimes does—that it stands apart.
Jane Eyre is probably the furthest thing from a typical beach read, but if you’re someone who wants some reminders that winter exists while you’re seaside, revisit this classic. It’s the tale of Jane, an orphaned girl who is abused by her guardians, who is then sent away to a further abusive school, and who then becomes a live-in governess for the ward of the mysterious Mr. Rochester. What I love about Jane’s tale is that it’s a love story, yes, but it’s much more than that—it’s about discovering Jane’s inner strength in the face of hardship, it’s a mystery, and it’s a tale that firmly situates Jane as the mistress of her own destiny. She is her own savior; she needs no man to replace her.
