Jane and I.... A Twelve Year Love Affair

Currently Reading: Inventing Ireland by Declan Kiberd and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte


I was eleven. My sixth-grade class that year was doing a reading challenge, where we recorded all of the books we had read on a giant chart, so that we could see how many we read by the end of the year. For whatever reason, I took the challenge quite literally and really strove to challenge myself. I still don't know why I got it into my head to find the biggest, thickest books on the school bookshelf with the biggest, longest words. It's not like I still didn't enjoy Babysitters Club or other small chapter books, designed expressly to be read by children my age. While I don't remember the inspiration that drove me to check out Great Expectations, or Dr. Doolittle, or Wuthering Heights, I did. And while my little head could not understand every word or plot point or character development, it took in enough to realize that there was so much to discover beyond the books I had read before. None of the three books I mentioned above became favorites. In fact, I have never reread them (although I tell myself I should. I have no doubt it would  be like culture shock, to reread something as an adult that I only ever experienced as a child.) Yet one classic stuck. And her name is Jane Eyre.

About a year ago, I revisited my old grade school's library and found the copy I first read, sitting there still on the shelf. Small in size, the words are printed tight together on browning pages. The cover is white with a blue border; a drawing of a woman in period dress stands in the foreground, while behind her is a man on a horse. I am an avid collector of copies of Jane Eyre and my bookshelf has a beautiful assortment, ranging in size and color, publication dates stretching from the early 20th century to the present. Yet this is the copy I would love to have over all others (except an 1847 first edition. If you have one of those, let me know!), for it is my original, the one where I first discovered Jane, and Thornfield, and Rochester. In that copy, I found my favorite place, the book that spoke to me above all others, even at a young age. I know others have checked it out after me, but the memory of my first discovery must still be nestled somewhere in those pages, held there indeterminately.  I held the little tome in my hand, showing it to my husband, who (bless his heart) has always appreciated and understood this love affair of mine. It felt so right, as if I was reliving a memory and found everything as I had left it, perfectly waiting for me.

Looking back, I can't remember what prompted my small self to notice the book or grab it from the shelf or take it home but I knew that I fell in love instantly. Inexplicably, at the age of eleven, something in my soul recognized a piece of itself, kept within a book cover, hidden on a shelf. And whenever I pull a copy from my shelf and start reading again, the anticipation and excitement that follows is the same as it was even then. Twelve years later, I view Jane Eyre as a friend, a home, a place familiar and welcoming to me, yet also a place where I never cease to discover something new with each visit. Our love affair is still going strong.


Me and Jane on my wedding day, one year ago, at the hair salon. 

I have so much to share about my newest experiences rereading Jane Eyre and I look forward to writing about my favorite book on my blog. I already have so many notes and thoughts, just waiting to be shared. P.S. Just for fun, did you know the background on this blog is a picture I took of several of my Jane Eyre copies opened and spread out on the table? :) I thought you would like to know!

Homesick for Books

Currently Reading: Nothing. Really. (But not for long. Give me about one hour... I have two waiting on my desk.) :)

It is true. I am currently not reading anything, unless you count my Mary Jane's Farm magazine, which has already gotten me excited about growing some vegetables on the balcony this spring.. even though it is only the beginning of January and I have some waiting to do. Sigh.
There are several reasons why I have not started a new book lately: someone checked out the book at the library I wanted, I had to wait for a book I ordered through Inter-Library Loan, but most of all: I am homesick.

Homesick for David Copperfield. I finished it about three days ago and although I loved it (or perhaps because I loved it so), it lingers with me still. At work on Thursday, while shelving books, I thought about a certain scene in the novel and smiled, thinking of going home to read more. That's when it hit me: I finished it. It was over. There was nothing more of it. I literally almost cried while shelving orange dots in the Children's Spanish section on a Thursday afternoon because of the stark realization that 741 pages had not been enough and I wanted more.

Several weeks ago, during an impromptu little meeting with some other literary-minded individuals, someone stated the mark of a good book is that "when it is over, you are left with a sense of emptiness." I was struck by this comment, because through all of my literary wanderings, I have always found this to be true. The best books- the ones I reread and cherish the most- are the ones that have left me with the dull ache of leaving home and missing the ones I love when I have finished them.



I have experienced this before- I'm sure you all have. There is a certain book that, as you read it, becomes different from others you have read. You get so wrapped up into the plot, the characters, the scenery, that you start to feel as though it is real and you are a part of it. You stop merely reading- you start living within the page. You ignore everything else around you while you are reading, while your thoughts remain on nothing else when you are not. This heightened form of reading is beautiful and unique; it is the reason why I read. Yet it always ends with a feeling of emptiness, a sense of letdown as you close the book and return it to the shelf, for your journey is over and you must say farewell to the characters you have observed and spoken with.

Thus am I left with a feeling of homesickness for Yarmouth, Mr. Peggotty's boat, Mr. Wickfield's house, and all of the fascinating characters I have had the privilege of knowing this past month. It is with a heavy sigh I return the book to the library, although I have no doubt I will visit it occasionally as I walk through the stacks. Nor am I the only one who sets David Copperfield aside with a heavy heart. In the preface to David Copperfield, Mr. Dickens wrote "It would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know how sorrowfully the pen is laid down at the close of a two-years' imaginative task; or how an Author feels as if he were dismissing some portion of himself into the shadowy world, when a crowd of the creatures of his brain are going from him for ever." Don't you love that sentence? In these words, one feels his own triumph mingling with reluctance and regret. How much harder it must be for the writer than the reader to let go of a book; I do not envy him that feeling. (How I wish there was a recording of his voice- I imagine it deep, melodic, and exquisitely rapturous. A man who writes like that could have no other voice, in my opinion.)

Yet unlike real trips or meetings and partings, those in the book world are always able to be relived. I can return to a myriad of places and revisit literary friends throughout my entire life. No doubt I will cross the threshold into David Copperfield again. And I have many other social calls to make in the literary world, with new introductions as well as joyful reunions. While the homesickness does leave eventually, the impact of a good book never does. For that, I am forever grateful.