Reading Robert Coover’s Pricksongs and Descants was like going through a primer in postmodernism, as each of the stories showcased an aspect of what had become associated with postmodern literature. There were stories that gave old ones a spin, stories that called attention to their existence as stories, boundaries between what is real and imagined blurred, pop cultural phenomena twisted into grotesque acts of human malice, and the notion of unilateral space-time cast into the wind. Each story in Pricksongs and Descants challenged the notion of what constitutes a short story and the conventional structure of such. Some broke conventions with much success, while others fell far short, or else distracted me with the problematic representation of the female characters.
I most enjoyed the style of the stories “Morris In Chains,” “Seven Exemplary Fictions,” and “The Gingerbread House,” which broke the rules in interesting and delightfully bizarre ways. In “Gingerbread House” and “J’s Marriage”, old stories are told from another character’s perspective (though “Gingerbread House” stays rather true to old-fashioned storytelling form), making them new and original. In “Panel Game,” a game show becomes a grotesque act showcasing humiliation and the basest and selfish instincts of human nature, eerily predicting the inception of “reality” television thirty years early. In fact, many of Coover’s stories present a distorted and/or monstrous version of reality, revealing the darkness of humanity. “A Pedestrian Accident,” “The Wayfarer,” and “The Leper’s Helix” are others that have this theme up front-and-center.
Other stories, I did not enjoy so much. “The Magic Poker” jumped from one reality to another much too quickly and abruptly to my taste, and the stories in “The Sentient Lens,” static and disconnected, though the language was quite intricate and beautiful. “Quenby and Ola, Swede and Carl” was the least innovative and interesting, the only story that actually bored me halfway through. The women in these stories (and a few others) were reduced mainly to their bodies, described very sensually by the onlooking narrator (whether they were a part of the action or not), but their own thoughts and motivations were withheld from the reader. Many of the female characters also experience either sex, death, or both, real or imagined, further reducing them to objects and literary devices. This did not hold entirely true to the male characters. And that is what is most bothersome about it. So, while much of Coover’s fiction was progressive for the time, his portrayal of women definitely was not.
One thing that I had not come across in any other fiction thus far was the helpless victimhood of many of the characters. In stories like “A Pedestrian Accident,” “Morris In Chains,” “Panel Game,” and “The Marker,” we learn very little about the main characters themselves, but are compelled to sympathize with them. They were mere pawns of theme and plot, somehow knowing they were trapped and could do nothing, but uncertain why. The storyteller thus becomes a cruel and sadistic god, putting his creations through humiliation and torture for the benefit of the narrative. This device brings the motivations and purpose of fiction to the foreground, placing all literary traditions in the background. It’s a cool concept that works in the aforementioned “Panel Game” and “A Pedestrian Accident,” not so much in “The Marker.” While his work is not perfectly progressive, Coover certainly proved himself to be one of the great spearheaders of the postmodern movement early in his career with these stories.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Friday, January 7, 2011
Critical Response Archive: Naked Lunch
Naked Lunch is one of those novels that may or may not withstand the test of time. Though it is one of the most acclaimed and influential novels of the last century, it did not have a very great impact on me personally. It’s described as “satire,” but I found it less humorous and more absurd. The vulgarity for me was also too much, and I found many of the depictions of homosexuals and foreigners to be problematic. It could be a matter of personal taste, but I did not find much that was so groundbreaking at the time. Certainly there was plenty of obscenity, but Kerouac and Ginsberg got there first. Such obscenity is so prominent in today’s culture that one can doubt if Naked Lunch has as much of an impact now as it did then.
What I did find interesting were the strange worlds that the narrator found himself in. However, I found it frustrating that I couldn’t really ground myself in any specific type of world. I chalk this up to the structure of the novel, which doesn’t really tell an overarching story, but several little stories loosely strung together with a character whose identity is multifaceted and unknown. One couldn’t know who was the narrator in sections that utilized the third person, and the nature of the narrator’s reality is constantly called into question, as he is always fucked up on some drug and hardly a reliable source about the reality of the world surrounding him. Cool images were conjured up by the artful language, but they were fleeting, lost in the murky waters of confusion. The proliferation of slang and made-up words also made the narratives difficult to follow, and one can definitely make an accurate guess about its age even without knowing about the Beat generation. However, Naked Lunch succeeded in constructing the consciousness of a drug junkie: a consciousness most of us are unfamiliar and uncomfortable with. For this, I commend Burroughs and his prose.
What I did find interesting were the strange worlds that the narrator found himself in. However, I found it frustrating that I couldn’t really ground myself in any specific type of world. I chalk this up to the structure of the novel, which doesn’t really tell an overarching story, but several little stories loosely strung together with a character whose identity is multifaceted and unknown. One couldn’t know who was the narrator in sections that utilized the third person, and the nature of the narrator’s reality is constantly called into question, as he is always fucked up on some drug and hardly a reliable source about the reality of the world surrounding him. Cool images were conjured up by the artful language, but they were fleeting, lost in the murky waters of confusion. The proliferation of slang and made-up words also made the narratives difficult to follow, and one can definitely make an accurate guess about its age even without knowing about the Beat generation. However, Naked Lunch succeeded in constructing the consciousness of a drug junkie: a consciousness most of us are unfamiliar and uncomfortable with. For this, I commend Burroughs and his prose.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Critical Response Archive: Pale Fire
Structurally, Pale Fire is a rather unique novel, masquerading as a non-fictional text surrounding an original poem. Posing as another kind of written work isn’t so unusual in the postmodern canon, but Vladimir Nabokov was one of the first, making Pale Fire an original and unique masterpiece. And because the novel is written as if it were nonfiction, the truthfulness of the narrator, who we know is merely a character, is already called into question. It draws attention to the fact that it is fiction, with made up place-names like Zembla and famous poets like John Shade. Whether the places and characters are modeled after anything or anyone in real life is anyone’s guess, and theories abound.
But what is most striking about Pale Fire is the unreliability and unlikeability of the narrator, who is so deluded as to think he could get a poet he admired to write a poem about him. And as one reads on, she questions the motivations and identity of the narrator, whose façade as a humble Zemblan professor quickly erodes in the last hundred pages. He seems almost eager to divulge his true identity towards the end. The ultimate doubts come towards the very end, when the narrator, Charles Kinbote, adds an anecdote about how he might make a play about two men with delusions of being a prince and his assassin, when that was the underlying plot of Kinbote’s tangent. The setup of the poet’s death itself is rather fishy, and given the evidence towards his creepy stalker-ish tendencies and eccentricities, I can’t help but wonder if perhaps Kinbote had been plotting his hero’s death the entire time, since the assassin’s incompetence was too painfully obvious. But just so he could get his hands on a poem? Pale Fire leaves us with many more questions than answers.
Pale Fire tells us a very important message: that you can’t always trust the word of the narrator, whether it’s non-fictional or not, especially if you’re given reasons to doubt him. I paid more attention to the text in order to detect inconsistencies or linguistic slips of the tongue in the narrative that could hint at the “truth” behind the “author” ’s words. And since Nabokov is twice removed from the text instead of once, his own motives and identity are even more disguised. Yet it can also be a very enjoyable read: Kinbote’s voice was very droll and entertaining, even if his tangents proved frustrating for me at first. I found myself laughing both at him and with him, reading more to find out what exactly his game was, as opposed to uncovering any plot twists (though they are certainly there). As one of the quintessential postmodern novels, Pale Fire is a good example of the boundaries that are pushed and questions raised when conventions are not just thwarted, but either cast into the wind or put to satire.
But what is most striking about Pale Fire is the unreliability and unlikeability of the narrator, who is so deluded as to think he could get a poet he admired to write a poem about him. And as one reads on, she questions the motivations and identity of the narrator, whose façade as a humble Zemblan professor quickly erodes in the last hundred pages. He seems almost eager to divulge his true identity towards the end. The ultimate doubts come towards the very end, when the narrator, Charles Kinbote, adds an anecdote about how he might make a play about two men with delusions of being a prince and his assassin, when that was the underlying plot of Kinbote’s tangent. The setup of the poet’s death itself is rather fishy, and given the evidence towards his creepy stalker-ish tendencies and eccentricities, I can’t help but wonder if perhaps Kinbote had been plotting his hero’s death the entire time, since the assassin’s incompetence was too painfully obvious. But just so he could get his hands on a poem? Pale Fire leaves us with many more questions than answers.
Pale Fire tells us a very important message: that you can’t always trust the word of the narrator, whether it’s non-fictional or not, especially if you’re given reasons to doubt him. I paid more attention to the text in order to detect inconsistencies or linguistic slips of the tongue in the narrative that could hint at the “truth” behind the “author” ’s words. And since Nabokov is twice removed from the text instead of once, his own motives and identity are even more disguised. Yet it can also be a very enjoyable read: Kinbote’s voice was very droll and entertaining, even if his tangents proved frustrating for me at first. I found myself laughing both at him and with him, reading more to find out what exactly his game was, as opposed to uncovering any plot twists (though they are certainly there). As one of the quintessential postmodern novels, Pale Fire is a good example of the boundaries that are pushed and questions raised when conventions are not just thwarted, but either cast into the wind or put to satire.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Hibernation
It's been a long while since I've been on this blog, due to stuff like work and school taking up 100% of my time. But out of this I have some good news! For one, I'm graduating college! Yay for real life! And, more importantly, I've found a new direction--or just a direction--to take this blog!
So from now on, I'm sticking to review, critique, and analysis of one of three things: literature (my love), film, and pop culture (which basically covers all other forms of entertainment, but also news and media criticism). And to start of with this new format, I'll be doing a little series on postmodern literature, putting up the first post by sometime next week.
OK, back to hibernation.
So from now on, I'm sticking to review, critique, and analysis of one of three things: literature (my love), film, and pop culture (which basically covers all other forms of entertainment, but also news and media criticism). And to start of with this new format, I'll be doing a little series on postmodern literature, putting up the first post by sometime next week.
OK, back to hibernation.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Final Bronte Review: Anne's Agnes Grey
Have any of you heard of Anne Bronte or Agnes Grey? Me, neither, until two months ago.
So I didn't know anything about this novel, except that the title character was also a governess...though her tenure as one is not nearly as pleasant as Jane Eyre's. It's the shortest of the bunch, and I have to say, I'm glad it was so brief.
Agnes Grey started out strong, albeit rushed: she's left her childhood home by the end of the first chapter. I sympathized with her in the second, as she dealt with evil, unruly little shits and their uncooperative parents. Unlike Jane, Agnes winds up quitting her first gig and returns home, then gets another job as a governess. The next set of children, while better than the first, are also corrupted and disagreeable...yet she somehow manages to stay on with this family for almost three years. The major conflicts in the story fizzle before we're through ten chapters.
The rest of the novel is, indeed, a romance. Agnes' elder pupil, Rosalie, is in active pursuit of a suitor, and Agnes herself falls in love with the new curate, Mr. Weston. While I commend the execution of this part of the tale--I felt for Rosalie even though she kind of deserved the unhappy marriage she wound up getting, and Agnes' feelings for Mr. Weston were developed and described with realism--it seemed to forget what the hell it was about in the beginning. One can say that it's about the pursuit of happiness, as Agnes has found it at its conclusion, while others (Rosalie in particular) have lost it because they did not follow their hearts. But that doesn't excuse the fact that I saw how things would end a mile away, and the last page itself was woefully rushed (it went something like this: we lived happily ever after, the end).
So, while the story is very realistic in plot, language, and characterization, it lacks enough conflict (for me) to keep the story engaging. The second half is pretty predictable, for the most part, and that makes it a little dull. No wonder Anne's first novel (she wrote another book, which I haven't read) has faded in literary memory among the general public. It's not nearly as exciting as Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights. (And I don't think the fact that Mr. Weston isn't a "bad boy" has anything to do with it.)
I give it...three-point-five out of five stars (the writing itself is good enough to give it that high of a rating). Anyone who likes stories about nice people becoming happy and not-so-nice people not being happy might like this stories. If you're not a fan of the other Brontes, you probably won't like this one, either.
So I didn't know anything about this novel, except that the title character was also a governess...though her tenure as one is not nearly as pleasant as Jane Eyre's. It's the shortest of the bunch, and I have to say, I'm glad it was so brief.
Agnes Grey started out strong, albeit rushed: she's left her childhood home by the end of the first chapter. I sympathized with her in the second, as she dealt with evil, unruly little shits and their uncooperative parents. Unlike Jane, Agnes winds up quitting her first gig and returns home, then gets another job as a governess. The next set of children, while better than the first, are also corrupted and disagreeable...yet she somehow manages to stay on with this family for almost three years. The major conflicts in the story fizzle before we're through ten chapters.
The rest of the novel is, indeed, a romance. Agnes' elder pupil, Rosalie, is in active pursuit of a suitor, and Agnes herself falls in love with the new curate, Mr. Weston. While I commend the execution of this part of the tale--I felt for Rosalie even though she kind of deserved the unhappy marriage she wound up getting, and Agnes' feelings for Mr. Weston were developed and described with realism--it seemed to forget what the hell it was about in the beginning. One can say that it's about the pursuit of happiness, as Agnes has found it at its conclusion, while others (Rosalie in particular) have lost it because they did not follow their hearts. But that doesn't excuse the fact that I saw how things would end a mile away, and the last page itself was woefully rushed (it went something like this: we lived happily ever after, the end).
So, while the story is very realistic in plot, language, and characterization, it lacks enough conflict (for me) to keep the story engaging. The second half is pretty predictable, for the most part, and that makes it a little dull. No wonder Anne's first novel (she wrote another book, which I haven't read) has faded in literary memory among the general public. It's not nearly as exciting as Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights. (And I don't think the fact that Mr. Weston isn't a "bad boy" has anything to do with it.)
I give it...three-point-five out of five stars (the writing itself is good enough to give it that high of a rating). Anyone who likes stories about nice people becoming happy and not-so-nice people not being happy might like this stories. If you're not a fan of the other Brontes, you probably won't like this one, either.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
2: Emily's Wuthering Heights
WARNING: MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS
At first, I wasn't very interested in reading Wuthering Heights: all that I knew of the plot were the words "Heathcliff", "moors", "ghost", and most glaringly, "romance". That last one really turned me off, as I eschew romances in the contemporary sense of the word. However, I've come to understand that "romance" was what novels used to be called, perhaps even as recent as the Brontes' day. And the only copy of Jane Eyre that I could find at the library also contained Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey. So I figured, why not just read all three of them?
Thus far, I have not regretted that decision. The first chapter of Wuthering Heights was a little confusing for me, so it took some time to get into the story. However, within the first five chapters I was immediately swept into the drama of the Earnshaw and Linton families, and of course Heathcliff, the infamous ruffian himself. Unlike Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights is a legit page-turner: I wanted to just keep on reading until I found out what happened next. The vast majority of the story is told within an external narrative (the housekeeper, who has witnessed all of this, tells the tenant Mr. Lockwood, who is the narrator of the novel), which creates an interesting perspective, as in a way we hear from all sides of the story. And it makes the characters' true motivations shrouded in mystery and intrigue, which creates great drama.
The novel's strongest point, though, is its characters. They are so tragic and complex, and all of them just about unlikeable--especially Heathcliffs Sr. and Jr.--at one point or another. Yet you can't help but like them, for all their flaws and redeeming qualities. Even though I knew that Catherine and Heathcliff may not have had a perfect fairy-tale ending to their romance, had they pursued it, I wanted them to be together, and became convinced that the tragedy of Shakespearean proportions that followed their separation could have been prevented, if they didn't deny their feelings. I was angry and frustrated near the end when Catherine Jr. fell into Heathcliff's trap of greed and misery, but was so happy that she had found love with Hareton after all, and would be happy again.
I was even on Heathcliff's side, in spite of all the horrible things that he did in his lifetime. After reading his backstory, I understood his anger and sorrow, and couldn't help but think up responses on his behalf when Mrs. Dean (the real narrator of the actual story) made disparaging comments about him. Even though if I knew a guy like Heathcliff, I wouldn't like him at all. He's not a jerk--he's a misunderstood jerk.
Plus, there's ghosts in it. And that makes just about any story better.
I have hardly a negative thing to say about Emily Bronte's masterpiece. The ending was quite satisfying (and fitting), the characters didn't ramble on all that much, the plot was riveting, and the characters were richly developed, depicted in both sympathetic and unsympathetic lights. Even though the story was tragic, there's even a kind-of-happy end to the whole thing. Quite simply, I loved it, from page one, on. Five stars out of five, and I recommend it to EVERYONE!
Last, but not least: Agnes Grey, by youngest sister Anne!
At first, I wasn't very interested in reading Wuthering Heights: all that I knew of the plot were the words "Heathcliff", "moors", "ghost", and most glaringly, "romance". That last one really turned me off, as I eschew romances in the contemporary sense of the word. However, I've come to understand that "romance" was what novels used to be called, perhaps even as recent as the Brontes' day. And the only copy of Jane Eyre that I could find at the library also contained Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey. So I figured, why not just read all three of them?Thus far, I have not regretted that decision. The first chapter of Wuthering Heights was a little confusing for me, so it took some time to get into the story. However, within the first five chapters I was immediately swept into the drama of the Earnshaw and Linton families, and of course Heathcliff, the infamous ruffian himself. Unlike Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights is a legit page-turner: I wanted to just keep on reading until I found out what happened next. The vast majority of the story is told within an external narrative (the housekeeper, who has witnessed all of this, tells the tenant Mr. Lockwood, who is the narrator of the novel), which creates an interesting perspective, as in a way we hear from all sides of the story. And it makes the characters' true motivations shrouded in mystery and intrigue, which creates great drama.
The novel's strongest point, though, is its characters. They are so tragic and complex, and all of them just about unlikeable--especially Heathcliffs Sr. and Jr.--at one point or another. Yet you can't help but like them, for all their flaws and redeeming qualities. Even though I knew that Catherine and Heathcliff may not have had a perfect fairy-tale ending to their romance, had they pursued it, I wanted them to be together, and became convinced that the tragedy of Shakespearean proportions that followed their separation could have been prevented, if they didn't deny their feelings. I was angry and frustrated near the end when Catherine Jr. fell into Heathcliff's trap of greed and misery, but was so happy that she had found love with Hareton after all, and would be happy again.
I was even on Heathcliff's side, in spite of all the horrible things that he did in his lifetime. After reading his backstory, I understood his anger and sorrow, and couldn't help but think up responses on his behalf when Mrs. Dean (the real narrator of the actual story) made disparaging comments about him. Even though if I knew a guy like Heathcliff, I wouldn't like him at all. He's not a jerk--he's a misunderstood jerk.
Plus, there's ghosts in it. And that makes just about any story better.
I have hardly a negative thing to say about Emily Bronte's masterpiece. The ending was quite satisfying (and fitting), the characters didn't ramble on all that much, the plot was riveting, and the characters were richly developed, depicted in both sympathetic and unsympathetic lights. Even though the story was tragic, there's even a kind-of-happy end to the whole thing. Quite simply, I loved it, from page one, on. Five stars out of five, and I recommend it to EVERYONE!
Last, but not least: Agnes Grey, by youngest sister Anne!
Monday, July 12, 2010
Review 1: Charlotte's Jane Eyre
WARNING: MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS!
I first came across Jane Eyre in a favorite YA series of mine: The Princess Diaries. In volume 4, Mia's autocratic grandmother gives her the book to read (for a reason I don't recall), and she quickly becomes enthralled in the romance between Jane and Mr. Rochester. I got the gist of Jane Eyre's plot from this and other books that referenced the novel, while I know little to none about Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey. I already knew about the romance, the crazy wife, and the fire. Perhaps this helped to lower my excitement about reading this particular novel.
I really enjoyed reading the first half: learning of her horrible childhood really put me on Jane's side, and she was very relatable with her strange and bookish behavior. The story was expertly written, since it was compelling and easy to follow, disproving the notion that centuries-old novels are somehow difficult to get through due to trivial differences in language and structure. I did get annoyed with the long-winded soliloquies of St. John (Jane's second suitor) and Mr. Rochester (though perhaps this was a commonplace writing style at the time). In spite of the gross age difference between Jane and Mr. Rochester, and Jane's passivity, I was able to enjoy most of the novel. Hell, even Bertha's appearance as a black monstrosity of a woman was tolerable, since that was the way most of English society thought of Black people at the time.
But as the novel progressed, it seemed to get more ridiculous, ruled by deus ex machina. First, Jane finds people who take her in after she runs away from Thornfield Hall, and they happen to be relations! And they like her a lot! Then it turns out that Mr. Rochester's wife, Bertha, had died in the fire that she had caused! He had even tried to save her, the noble man that he is! Now she can get back together with Mr. Rochester! Yay! A happy ending was produced artificially, forced by the author's hand. It seemed as if Charlotte couldn't stand to give anyone but the most vicious characters a sad end.
Even St. John, whom I detested for his orthodox prudishness (he refused to take Jane with him to India without marrying her first, though they were related, purely because he found it "improper"! I wished the whole time that Jane would just tell him off, and she did...but then she agreed, even though she had said that she didn't want to), was given a good ending - and the last three paragraphs of the novel! He was only in the last ten chapters of the book, so I do not get why he had to get the last three paragraphs. It talked about him dying, and ended with a quote about Jesus: a total non sequitor to the whole story, as I gathered that Jane was not a particularly religious woman.
And in spite of Mr. Rochester's injuries, he and Jane apparently had a happy marriage, and even had kids! (There is a mention of a firstborn on the last page, and nothing more, so I assume they had at least two healthy children.) While it sends a good message that a woman can love a disfigured man that she had known in health, Jane's willingness to return to him and care for him rubbed me the wrong way. Mr. Rochester had been a real jerk, and she was young yet: there could have been other suitors, had she sought for another post as a governess or schoolmistress. While Jane (the narrator of the tale) ended at a happy time in her life, unhappiness would surely be on the horizon. Mr. Rochester's aging, worsened by his injuries, could overburden her as a wife and mother, and the 20-year age difference will surely send her to early widowhood. And she doesn't seem to have a problem with that, which is kind of what bothers me most of all. Jane, in the end, was not strong enough to forge her own path (I chalk it up to her personality), and relied on a man, either St. John or Mr. Rochester, to help guide her way. Given that the novel was written in the 1840s, one can hardly think that it would be necessarily feminist as the term is defined today, (and Charlotte was certainly not unfeminist) but that was just one of the many things that irked me about Jane's character. The sentimentality of her narration, her passive attitude towards issues of great importance (like going to India with St. John - she lets how he feels trump how she feels about it!), and lack of a sense of adventure and curiosity (except when it came to Mr. Rochester) had me frustrated.
However, this novel totally PWN'd anything that Dickens ever wrote, as I actually liked it. I give it three out of five stars, and recommend it to anyone who feels like reading a 300-page novel from the 19th century.
Next up: Wuthering Heights, by middle sister Emily!
I first came across Jane Eyre in a favorite YA series of mine: The Princess Diaries. In volume 4, Mia's autocratic grandmother gives her the book to read (for a reason I don't recall), and she quickly becomes enthralled in the romance between Jane and Mr. Rochester. I got the gist of Jane Eyre's plot from this and other books that referenced the novel, while I know little to none about Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey. I already knew about the romance, the crazy wife, and the fire. Perhaps this helped to lower my excitement about reading this particular novel.
I really enjoyed reading the first half: learning of her horrible childhood really put me on Jane's side, and she was very relatable with her strange and bookish behavior. The story was expertly written, since it was compelling and easy to follow, disproving the notion that centuries-old novels are somehow difficult to get through due to trivial differences in language and structure. I did get annoyed with the long-winded soliloquies of St. John (Jane's second suitor) and Mr. Rochester (though perhaps this was a commonplace writing style at the time). In spite of the gross age difference between Jane and Mr. Rochester, and Jane's passivity, I was able to enjoy most of the novel. Hell, even Bertha's appearance as a black monstrosity of a woman was tolerable, since that was the way most of English society thought of Black people at the time.
But as the novel progressed, it seemed to get more ridiculous, ruled by deus ex machina. First, Jane finds people who take her in after she runs away from Thornfield Hall, and they happen to be relations! And they like her a lot! Then it turns out that Mr. Rochester's wife, Bertha, had died in the fire that she had caused! He had even tried to save her, the noble man that he is! Now she can get back together with Mr. Rochester! Yay! A happy ending was produced artificially, forced by the author's hand. It seemed as if Charlotte couldn't stand to give anyone but the most vicious characters a sad end.
Even St. John, whom I detested for his orthodox prudishness (he refused to take Jane with him to India without marrying her first, though they were related, purely because he found it "improper"! I wished the whole time that Jane would just tell him off, and she did...but then she agreed, even though she had said that she didn't want to), was given a good ending - and the last three paragraphs of the novel! He was only in the last ten chapters of the book, so I do not get why he had to get the last three paragraphs. It talked about him dying, and ended with a quote about Jesus: a total non sequitor to the whole story, as I gathered that Jane was not a particularly religious woman.
And in spite of Mr. Rochester's injuries, he and Jane apparently had a happy marriage, and even had kids! (There is a mention of a firstborn on the last page, and nothing more, so I assume they had at least two healthy children.) While it sends a good message that a woman can love a disfigured man that she had known in health, Jane's willingness to return to him and care for him rubbed me the wrong way. Mr. Rochester had been a real jerk, and she was young yet: there could have been other suitors, had she sought for another post as a governess or schoolmistress. While Jane (the narrator of the tale) ended at a happy time in her life, unhappiness would surely be on the horizon. Mr. Rochester's aging, worsened by his injuries, could overburden her as a wife and mother, and the 20-year age difference will surely send her to early widowhood. And she doesn't seem to have a problem with that, which is kind of what bothers me most of all. Jane, in the end, was not strong enough to forge her own path (I chalk it up to her personality), and relied on a man, either St. John or Mr. Rochester, to help guide her way. Given that the novel was written in the 1840s, one can hardly think that it would be necessarily feminist as the term is defined today, (and Charlotte was certainly not unfeminist) but that was just one of the many things that irked me about Jane's character. The sentimentality of her narration, her passive attitude towards issues of great importance (like going to India with St. John - she lets how he feels trump how she feels about it!), and lack of a sense of adventure and curiosity (except when it came to Mr. Rochester) had me frustrated.
However, this novel totally PWN'd anything that Dickens ever wrote, as I actually liked it. I give it three out of five stars, and recommend it to anyone who feels like reading a 300-page novel from the 19th century.
Next up: Wuthering Heights, by middle sister Emily!
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