"Jane Eyre" is a novel by Charlotte Brontë, one of the famous Brontë sisters, many of whom were writers and all of whom lived long and prosperous lives that were free from tragedy. The book is about a girl named Jane and, boy, is Jane a good name for her because she is plaaaaaaain. Like plain as a cardboard box, which I guess is a good thing because her plainness represents all of the virtues of England or some shit.
Jane loves two things. Taking walks outside — even though there are many days with no possibility of taking a walk — and this man named Mr. Rochester who once took a lady from the West Indies, married her and then locked her in the attic because she went crazy. I’m talking totally nutso, man. But Jane loves Rochester anyway because he’s quite mean and you know how ladies love assholes. (High five, bro.)
Time passes and eventually the crazy wife burns Rochester’s house down and also burns off Rochester’s hand and probably some other parts of his body, too. Anyway, he’s real gross after that, but Jane still loves him and he loves her back because she will not treat him differently and will still let him be horrible to her even though he’s ugly now and locked his last wife in an attic.
Some other stuff happens to, but I don’t have time to be specific about it because my phone is ringing and I have to go do my taxes, but trust me — I know what happens.
This past week I’ve started a Madeleine Davies Fan Club, based on her hilarious posts at Jezebel. This one had me laughing out loud, and not AT ALL because I sometimes pretend to have read classic books that I haven’t, and especially NOT while dating a hot English Professor.