Tiny Stories, Tiny Tales

Jane Eyre, a cold day in spring

What struck me at once about Jane Eyre was her incredible refusal to throw her self on the altar of anyone’s desire or command. She cannot do it for Mrs. Reed, she decides not to for Mr. Rochester despite the terrible pain it gives her and she manages to resist St. John Rivers though he is terribly persistent and believes God is on his side- the scariest of all people, I find. At each turn, she remains distinctly herself and at the end of book, she respects all her decisions and is ashamed of none, though others still might think ill of her for those choices.
I can’t imagine there were any heroines like this on the book scene at that time. Charlotte Bronte lived off in her own world, not in the literary scene but in a wonderful and vivid fantasy world built by her and her siblings. She did eventually shrug off this dazzling world of huge, intense sagas but she came up with things like “Jane Eyre” instead and “Villette,” which weren’t very far in their internal, psychological worlds of her earlier writing.
So “Jane Eyre” came seemingly out of nowhere, bursting onto the public world and being rather scandalous as a result. It’s only 20 years later that “The American Woman’s Home” got written by Catharine Beecher and Harriet Beecher Stowe. This a book full of the pleas and then commands women to live the life of self denial and self sacrifice. Someone must perform self sacrifice so the rest of the family can lead a good life! Throw yourself on the altar of this good and consuming act! Christ will reward you! It’s all very bone-chilling.
One of my favorite authors L.M Montgomery took tremendous refuge in reading “Jane Eyre”- which she did over and over and it’s not surprising. In one of her series, Emily of New Moon, there’s many links of spirit and description between Emily and Jane. And one wonders if not for Jane Eyre, would there have been an Anne as well?
And so while Jane Eyre threw the reader forward to a strong female protagonist full of her own resolve and will, Mrs. Rochester propels the reader back. This is not humane treatment of an insane person. And of course, the insane person does deserve that treatment. Hmmm…where have I heard that before? “She made me do it!” Tsk, tsk, Mr. Rochester.
Anyway, this is such an awesome read and I want to read it all over again now that I’m done. It’s a world that’s dark, gloomy, awesome and gothic. It wrestles with views on God and how to lead a good life where the self is not sacrificed.  Nothing else I can ask for!

Comments (2):

  1. Merry F.

    March 17, 2011 at 12:43 pm

    Indeed, I have found that there are many connections between L.M. Montgomery’s writing and Bronte’s. The sheer number of references made… Diana is one of St. John’s sisters in Jane Eyre, and Diana is Anne’s best friend in Anne of Green Gables. One of Anne’s friends in Anne’s House of Dreams has a dog named Carlo; the same name of St. John’s dog. Both Anne and Emily are orphans, just like Jane; and in Emily of New Moon, Dean Priest places a flower in an old copy of “Jane Eyre” that he has, and a verse from the song Mr. Rochester sings to Jane is quoted. These are just a few of the many similarities I have found. Coincidence? Apparently not!

  2. Catherine

    March 17, 2011 at 1:00 pm

    I never made the Diana and Carlo connections! So thank you. What you pointed is rather wonderful. I do love the instances in LMM’s journals where she mentions reading “Jane Eyre” time and time again. That book struck a tremendously deep chord in her as I believe it did a great many women then and certainly now.

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Ouroboros in the Park

Japanese anemone flowers open blush pink petals in the park.  Their tall, delicate stems hold up the tender flowers, and in the centers glow tiny pistil-laden suns. Furry carpenter bees buzz in a frenzy, adoring the tiny suns. Like all true worshipers, they circle round and round the yellow centers, smearing themselves in joy and pollen.

I also circle a center, but the object of my adoration is the park itself. As the path guides me around and around, my body, full of the usual tensions and distresses, takes the cue, finds the beat and the measure and walks to it.

The English Romantic Poets of the early 19th century were great walkers and believed that walking was essential to writing to poetry. With the body busy, the mind can walk freely, investing in its visions and tunneling down into what were previously subterranean thoughts.

This small park is my open field, my verdure, my ramble through hill and dale. My feet move on, sometimes slowing to a near pause, other times hurrying, suddenly propelled by a new and vivid notion.

About the fifth time around, a sort of mesmerism occurs and I fall under the trance of the day. The circle becomes a mantra uttered by my feet—knees, hips, shoulders, and arms follow along and we head down the path. I must walk, I must keep walking, I must continue to walk and the resolution becomes a reassurance as a cool breeze fills my lungs; I am alive and refreshed.

I pass under the oaks and dodge their falling acorns. Sometimes I entertain the notion that squirrels are hurling them, but when I catch sight of their small triangular faces they look as startled as me. It is the oaks themselves that are throwing the acorns down. I momentarily consider bringing an umbrella, opening it when I walk under the oaks, but this an old consideration that I’ve been contemplating for years of autumns and I’ve never acted on it. Instead, I dodge and the squirrels stare hard.

Finally I have to go but the revolutions and bees in the park stay with me even after I leave, continuing  with their wheeling. They pass through the days and nights, rapturous and serene, monotonous some days and a miracle on others, and on most days both. They exist in the circle that is sometimes opened, sometimes closed. Within the circle, everything changes and nothing changes each time we pass through.

 

Kazuaki Tanahashi, Miracle at Each Moment

 

Pocket-Sized Photo Diary

There are small moments that must be filled. They open and expand while waiting in doctors’ and dentists’ offices; in long, slow moving grocery check-out lines; or in those few, empty moments before leaving the house or office for another destination. Staring into space is my favorite pastime and generally fills up all the minutes given (and much more), but there are other waiting times when my spirit needs a gentle pick-me-up without doing much conscious work.

That’s when I open the Photo Album on my phone and start scrolling. I discovered this delight quite by accident while lounging in my therapist’s waiting room one afternoon. I was feeling flattened by living with PTSD and other health issues, and I wanted muster up a little hope before I went into my session. So in a despondent, weary way, I opened up the photo album app. To my surprise, I was greeted by pictures of flowers, landscapes and book excerpts that I had busily taken days ago and had already forgotten. I scrolled back farther and it was much the same, mixed with pictures of friends, family, pets, and friendly dogs I had met on my walks.

I discovered my photo diary which had been my pocket all this time. “I never travel without my diary,” Oscar Wilde wrote. “One should always have something sensational to read in the train.” It still holds true; nothing is so interesting as what we took notice of days ago, weeks and months ago, be it written in a journal or snapped with a viewfinder.

As days spin into weeks, months, and years, it is hard to catch hold of any kind of underlining rhythm or purpose. A photo diary offers a kind of consolation. There’s nothing sublime there, it simply marks changing seasons, interests, travels, and friendship. But perhaps on the difficult days where everything is too much including our own thoughts, a photo diary is a moment of gentle release. The lightness of ephemerality eases the heavy load of living.

 

“But life itself is short, and so you are terribly agitated by everything that is eternal.”

–Eileen Chang, On Music