Metacognition: Jane Eyre

My mom told me that I would love Jane Eyre. I hate when my mom's right.

I loved the novel for precisely two reasons.

First, it was 19th century! Contrary to the opinions of some of my classmates, that concept drew me in. Whenever I see something historical, I feel this almost magnetic pull towards it. My mind craves that sense of the past, that portal to yesteryear. Why? I have no idea... But, when I would start reading, I would drift away, and find myself transplanted into the story: I could see the trees; I could hear the horses hooves, clopping along the brick road into Milton; Thornfield's sitting room was all around me; Jane was at my side. It was almost like heaven... (Yes, I know I'm a nerd...)

And second, the language. Oh, the language. It was lush; it was rich; it was quintessentially 19th century, and that was great. Modern novels (although some are masterful) are sometimes so painfully to the point and minimalist. I'm not saying that a candid, word saving style is not beautiful; it definitely can be. But, for me, personally, Brontes style is so much more alluring, so organic, so unknown. You get the feeling that she is just pouring out her heart threw her hand, and I could not rip myself away.

Although here, I am being somewhat modernly minimalist in my explanation, opposed to my sometimes garralous (notice the use of a vocab word) blogposts, those two things which I loved the most about Jane Eyre are things I would love to emulate. I'm not living in the 19th century, no. And that's what I think the novel taught me the most, that someday, probably in the far, far future, I'd like to write like Bronte, be like Bronte.

...but never stop being myself of course.