The Professor by Charlotte Brontë

I set down to read The Professor by Charlotte Brontë with a clear mind lacking in any fully realised expectations. I did not expect it to be any Jane Eyre after reading reviews which spoke of its mediocrity and learning it to be her first novel, but perhaps I did in a way. Perhaps I did set down with expectations; but, if I did, I was unsuspecting of their existence when I passed to the first page. Besides, I suppose the only true thing I expected was to experience once more her - I lack an appropiate adjective here - style of writing.

The Professor is different in numerous ways; firstly, it is her first novel. Maybe this does not call it out as different to any other than I, but such a state certainly seems to assure that it cannot be the same. Another point of variation which is perhaps the most significant to realise is that it is from the male perspective, a practice not seen in any of her other novels. I think this is a fact that many readers of Brontë will be weary of and I, too, probably shared this uncertainty; after all, how could I learn to love a male lead as I had loved Jane Eyre? Past novels read and have made me almost accustomed to seeing the likes of Mr. Rochester and Mr. Darcy from the sidelines, rather than from viewing all else through their own eyes.

I was pleasantly surprised, then, to find I liked Crimsworth quite from the start. The tale is told from 'his' own hand, and a feeling of sympathy towards this "shy noodle" (I simply can't forget this line!) is essential to involvement in the tale. We learn of his character, his maturation, his loves, his woes and his eventual career as the titular "professor" - and what more can one expect? We learn of him essentially, as a young man who rejects his path and sets out on his own, firstly turning to trade in stubborness, then to foreign countries where he becomes the titular professor. There are, of course, other characters to the novel, andBront ë once more creates a marvellous cast of characters who we so earnestly want to learn more of.

It would be worthless to speak more of them, however, as individual taste certainly plays a factor in regards to the sympathy laid upon each. Even so, some of them are familiar, whether be it his loves or his friend - is that right? - Hunsden. It is not so drastically different as perhaps I first implied, as this is a tale enjoyed as well as Brontë's others. It is short, though, and perhaps we cannot delve in and explore as much, but it still displays to us an ample view of her development as a writer if nothing else.

Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy

I'm not sure where to begin regarding this book, for it's one that I bear mixed feelings. I don't feel it to be a book that I can wholly extol upon, but neither is it a book I can truly criticise. It is a book that I held different feelings about at different points, but this is not enough to say of it; after all, what were these feelings - what were these points?

Tess of the D'Urbervilles follows the titular character - although we perhaps may call her Tess Durbeyfield instead, for this is the name we learn holds her preference throughout - through a life which seems to showcase much mistreatment. When we first meet Tess, she is simple and beautiful, though a mere peasant; she is indeed 'pure' and perfectly naive. This, as one may expect, is soon shattered and her 'downfall', I suppose, is imposed by her family's discovery of their wealthy, boast-worthy descendants. She is pressured to make acquaintance with nearby 'relations', but something far from the lovely marriage expected occurs, something which steals away from her her title of purity.

Or so it would have seemed had not Hardy written of her with such sensitivity so as to imply the contrary. I almost want to wish I could know more of Tess, of her circumstances, but I've no doubt that the barriers formed were Hardy's intentions. We do not become attached to Tess, or at least I did not. I followed her through and rather than witnessing the tragic twists of fate, I merely heard of them, and perhaps this is the reason why I admit myself cold hearted here and say I do not feel this a book saturated with any real emotion. I feel it rather a tale of ambivalence and of longing, though I know not what we should long for; perhaps of fairness. It felt almost a tale of 'what if?'; such an idea, at least, is nurtured by Hardy when not implicitly stated; for, numerous times did I find myself reading "and if Tess had...".

There is nothing wrong with such; in fact, I think it its charm. I remember this novel and its events as I would remember a dream, and it's a nice feeling I suppose, and one that seems to only emphasise in me the thought that this is a book different to most. I think it is a book that requires slow, unrushed reading - either that or a later re-read - to fully absorb all the many things it has to say; or, rather, to allow it time for all its beautiful language to form itself into our own crude ideas on the subjects it so eloquently discusses.

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

It feels a long time ago now, but it's still an occasion easily remembered when Pride and Prejudice forced me to reconsider all my preconceptions of classical romantic literature; and, indeed, I suppose it wiped away the qualities I shared of the title. Since then, I have been delving further and further into all the different sorts of literature gone and past - too many titles to mention or count here; recently, it has been Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë, though it was initially written under the pen name Currer Bell.

I'm sure it's a title well-heard of, though perhaps not so well understood. I, at least, had little to say of the name past the knowledge it was a book, one often adapted to many other varying forms: films, musicals, television series, but I had seen none of it. Jane Eyre, to me, was a mere name, and a name I wanted little to do with since it seemed to me, like Pride and Prejudice once had, something of a 'girly' book that most certainly would not interest me. But, as I read more and more titles - indeed, even going so far from my past self so as to buy all of Jane Austen's novels - Jane Eyre gradually became a main focus of my to-read list.

And how wrong I was! I'm not sure what I was expecting; perhaps it was a mere duplicate of Pride and Prejudice, though perhaps something else entirely. It matters not now, truly, for Jane Eyre is a novel that can be compared to no other.

"There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question."

I f ind it difficult to believe that one could feel even moderate dislike for the character of Eyre throughout this novel, for I fell in love with her instantly. She is a character I sympathised with from the very beginning and that is a state which only developed throughout the course of this "epic love story", as the back cover of my copy so eloquently puts it. I suppose it is such, but one cannot merely pass their eyes over that word "epic" despite its abuse today - Jane Eyre epitomises the word, as does the titular character, despite her outward appearance which is so utterly ordinary and far from 'handsome'; and, despite, too, her low social status and all the rest seemingly thrown upon her.

The story opens upon Jane as an orphan, 'cared' for by an Aunt who scorns her and a cousin who abuses her. Soon, life improves in that she is away from such cruel relations and sent to attend Lowood Academy, which, interestingly enough, is supposedly a stage of the novel based upon Brontë's own experiences at the Clergy Daughter's Shool in Lancashire. After learning of these autobiographical elements, it's odd to think that, while I admire Jane Eyre, perhaps I should instead be looking upon Brontë. I am not so delusional to truly believe it, but it certainly does feel as though Eyre is a real person - breathing, moving, acting. She is not so easily forgotten as others; I have thought about her for days following the novel. She is one character - one person, even - who I truly admire and would gladly seek to act in her shadow. Inspirational, perhaps, is the word.

I cannot divulge more of the plot, despite how desperately I would love to discuss it. There is far more to the story of thirty eight chapters than what I have talked of already, perhaps the most important being the introduction of Mr. Rochester. Ah, he! - so similiar yet far darker than the familiar Mr. Darcy! Perhaps it's obvious that this is the type of book that tears me away from my stance as the firm tomboy I used to be; this is the type of book that proves it need not be a thriller that is seemingly glued to your hands throughout the day and night; this is Jane Eyre. I have no criticism of it, for I cannot agree with any of the meager complaints of 'too much dialogue' and the like; the most I can say is that I am somewhat vexed that I had not found it earlier as I already eagerly await time to re-read it.