“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.” My fourth grade-self closed the book and savored the words. Why was there no possibility of taking a walk that day? I wanted to know. Ever since the day in first grade that I had stumbled across the Brontë sisters’ portrait in London’s National Portrait Gallery, I had been hooked by the Brontë sisters’ lives.
I learned that the Brontës had lived in a barren, windswept portion of England called the moors, and they had written beautiful books set in that desolate place. I begged my parents for years to let me read a Brontë book, and now in fourth grade I was finally considered old enough to read one. My copy of Jane Eyre was ancient, and the pages crumbled as I touched them. As I read the book for the first time over a period of months, I got in the habit of handling these pages – these priceless treasures – with the utmost care.
Thus began what my family now refers to as my “Jane Eyre Phase.” I drew Jane Eyre pictures, wrote Jane Eyre essays, and of course, my loquacious fourth-grade self told everyone everything.
“Mama, Jane’s friend is super sick. Isn’t that like the saddest thing?’’
“Grandma, I think Jane is falling in love! Aren’t you excited?”
“Daddy, I think I’ve figured out Mr. Rochester’s secret…and it’s, like, crazy.”
Even before I read Jane Eyre, I had always loved reading. I remember hearing my father read “The Raven” aloud in a way that made my spine tingle. I remember sitting with my sisters while he read of a gruesome murder in Oliver Twist, listening with a kind of morbid fascination. My mom preferred to share more wholesome books with us, like Little Women and Little House on the Prairie, both of which I now have basically memorized. When my fourth sibling was born, my mother took the doors off a closet and put his crib inside so that we would still have one room in our tiny apartment set aside as a library. At my house, books are everything.
However, although I was exposed to quality literature, it was not until I read Jane Eyre that I really understood what books can truly do for me. I used to go into the library and ask: “If I like Harry Potter and Percy Jackson, then what are some other books I would like?” There’s nothing wrong with these books – my younger sister basically reads Harry Potter on a loop schedule. Harry Potter is a great series. However, I mostly read these books because that’s what other kids were reading. Particularly with the Percy Jackson series, I distinctly remember that all the other kids in my second-grade ballet class were reading them, and I wanted to be in on the fun. I wanted to have something in common with those kids. I did not honestly care what the books were about, or whether they were well-written. If a book was near me, I would read it, no matter the quality.
After my Jane Eyre experience, my librarian question changed. It was no longer: “What’s the latest release?” and instead: “Can you recommend any classic books I would enjoy?” I realized that classic books resonate more with my life today than many modern books do. Classic books are classic for a reason. They are filled with universal themes that have lasted for generations. Humanity may tell itself that it is completely different than it was in the past, but that’s simply untrue. The elegance and refinement of the Georgian period, the grandeur that was Rome, and the turbulent Renaissance may seem completely different than the modern age of technology. Yet all these times in history are really quite similar. Humans have always grappled with the universal longing for happiness; inhabitants of different eras just sought happiness in different ways. Jane Eyre taught me that love, heartache, and the quest for happiness are themes all people have in common. I may not share the same secret as Mr. Rochester – but I know what it’s like to try to bury my secret failings, as do most of us.
Since my Jane Eyre Phase, I have moved on to devouring as many classic books as possible. I have discovered some authors that I love even more than the Brontës and found others along the way that have perhaps remained obscure for a reason (my Wilkie Collins Sensation-Novel Phase comes to mind). I have come to recognize a treasure when I find one buried in the library stacks, and thanks to Jane, have never looked back since.
By Lara Cratty ’27, Contributing Writer