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2月5日 Update Read again for the 56th time(so is the rough estimate) a certain book entitled Jane Eyre.
Never liked its author. No. She was too decided against Jane Austen. Thus my opposition to her.
The language of the book certainly is way to inferior to that of Austen's. Not humourous. And she is continually quoting, quite unneccessarily most of the time, as if she does not have a thought of her own. Sometimes her language even strikes me as being too coarse.
But the plot is quite to my liking, I'll do her justice on that. That is why I have never abandoned reading it.And she was quite good at describing passion which Jane Austen delicately avoided.
Why do I read? I never can answer this question satisfactorily. Principally for pleasure I expect. I derive pleasure from laughing at a humourously twisted sentence. I derive pleasure from escaping from reality into 19th century where I always think I would be better fitted. I derive pleasure from experiencing vicariously love through the pages(alas, I do not have a heart of stone contrary to my wishes).
I am reviewing 19th century English literature, with Mozart's music in my ears. Consequentely, I am now in my once-in-a-while-discontended-with-the-21st-century moods.
Ironically, I am using the Internet--one of the symbols of modern technology--to tell this.
Pathetic.
P.S. Who has got BBC 1983 edition of Jane Eyre(starring Timonthy Dalton)? Would who ever that might be be so kind as to lend me it? |
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