There are certain books that I read over and over because no matter where I am in my life, they speak to me. They have spoiled me for inferior books. Like The Lord of the Rings or The Chronicles of Narnia, I couldn’t even guess how many times I’ve read another favorite—Jane Eyre. Some of the best lines ever written come from this poor, plain girl who has suffered so deeply, been overlooked so thoroughly and came to know herself so completely.
She comes to a point which should be the happiest day of her life—Mr. Rochester is finally going to marry her (after shunning rich, snotty girls)—she will have value in a monetary and social venue, value in love to another human being (whom she also loves), and will be recognized. She never in her life had any of those things. She was really alone. And then, her wedding day, at the Church, all dolled up with new duds, about to finally belong (in the most perfect sense of the word—not as property, my feminist friends) to someone else when, with a sentence, she is stripped of everything she ever wanted.