She was quite the artist. Her words evoke emotions that the reader feels deeply. "Jane Eyre" is my favorite work of hers. Her descriptions are impeccably fantastic and they make your heart sing with pleasure. I have read the book at least a dozen times and seen every single version of the movie. Ever. Made. My favorite is the BBC Masterpiece Theater made in 2006. Not only is the Mr. Rochester terrifyingly handsome, but Jane is evidently plain.
It is so beautiful. Jane becomes so beautiful once she admits it to herself, and to him, that she loves, with her entirety, Mr. Edward Fairfax Rochester. And he, he returns that same love for her. Their love story is one that will never die and will never fail to bring readers to tears; tears of joy, tears of love, and tears of compassion; occasionally, tears of anger.
One cannot fully understand this book until you become Jane, until you are formed into the lonely, poor, obscure and plain girl that Jane Eyre is.
Jane Eyre is the epitome of unseen beauty. She is the candle I hold up to myself. Jane Eyre is the person that everyone should strive to become; humble, submissive, meek, kind, witty, loving, compassionate, understanding, patient, truthful, smart, talented.
Yes, I am fully aware that she is fictional. It's a shame though. I should have liked very much to have met this wonderful woman whose life knew such tight boundaries and whose love defied all description, whose compassion made her the happiest woman on earth.
Mr. Rochester. He is the ultimate example of what my dream man should be. Handsome, dark and mysterious, tall, boisterous, fascinating and secretive. He isn't a beauty, but "if I loved him less, he would have seemed savage." The lines of his face creating deep shadows, his thick eyelashes tickle my cheek as he whispers into my ear, his strong arms encircle me about, bring me to him. His dark eyes burn through me, as if they are looking into my very soul. His callused hands carress my face.
Ok, I just blew myself away with that. I wish I could write like that all the time. If I do say so myself, that was a work of art. I hardly ever write like that. Sometimes it comes to me like water out of a fire hydrant, uncontrolled and bursting forth. Other times, it seems as though the words drip out of a leaky faucet. I blew myself away again.