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Jane Eyre (originally published as Jane Eyre: An Autobiography) is a novel by English writer Charlotte Brontë. It was published on 16 October 1847 by Smith, Elder & Co. of London, England, under the pen name "Currer Bell." The first American edition was released the following year by Harper & Brothers of New York. Primarily of the bildungsroman genre, Jane Eyre follows the emotions and experiences of its title character, including her growth to adulthood, and her love for Mr. Rochester, the byronic master of fictitious Thornfield Hall. In its internalisation of the action — the focus is on the gradual unfolding of Jane's moral and spiritual sensibility and all the events are coloured by a heightened intensity that was previously the domain of poetry — Jane Eyre revolutionised the art of fiction. Charlotte Brontë has been called the 'first historian of the private consciousness' and the literary ancestor of writers like Joyce and Proust. The novel contains elements of social criticism, with a strong sense of morality at its core, but is nonetheless a novel many consider ahead of its time given the individualistic character of Jane and the novel's exploration of classism, sexuality, religion, and proto-feminism.
of the case?” “I do see a certain justice; but it is contrary to all custom. Besides, the entire fortune is your right; my uncle gained it by his own efforts; he was free to leave it to whom he would; he left it to you. After all, justice permits you to keep it; you may, with a clear conscience, consider it absolutely your own.” “With me,” said I, “it is fully as much a matter of feeling as of conscience. I must indulge my feelings, I so seldom have had an opportunity of doing so. Were you to
them?” How much I wished to reply fully to this question! How difficult it was to frame any answer! Children can feel, but they cannot analyze their feelings; and if the analysis is partially effected in thought, they know not how to express the result of the process in words. Fearful, however, of losing this first and only opportunity of relieving my grief by imparting it, I, after a disturbed pause, contrived to frame a meagre, though, as far as it went, true response. “For one thing, I have
Jane,” she said, as she looked down at me; “a little, roving, solitary thing; and you are going to school, I suppose?” I nodded. “And won’t you be sorry to leave poor Bessie?” “What does Bessie care for me? She is always scolding me.” “Because you’re such a queer, frightened, shy little thing. You should be bolder.” “What! to get more knocks?” “Nonsense! But you are rather put upon, that’s certain. My mother said, when she came to see me last week, that she would not like a little one of
herself. While Charlotte continued to write and enjoy more success with her next two novels, Shirley and Villette, it seemed that she was condemned to care for her father alone in a desolate and terribly lonely environment. Her letters of this time are full of painful reflections and attempts to reconcile herself to her sisters’ deaths, as well as her own fate as a lifelong “spinster.” The next years of Charlotte’s life were, however, enlivened by a growing reputation as a serious novelist and
and then, I received a damping check to my cheerfulness; and was, in spite of myself, thrown back on the region of doubts and portents, and dark conjectures. This was when I chanced to see the third-story stair-case door (which of late had always been kept locked) open slowly, and give passage to the form of Grace Poole, in prim cap, white apron, and handkerchief—when I watched her glide along the gallery, her quiet tread muffled in a list slipper; when I saw her look into the bustling,