So
this post may lose me some major lit-nerd cred and one or more of my
woman cards, because I'm going to go up against some of the pillars
of lady lit nerd-dom...The Brontes. I've alluded to these issues
here and here, and thought it was time to address them head on,
mainly because I haven't had any really hateful comments directed my
way in a while.
My
first Bronte issue shouldn't raise too much ire, since it's mostly an
opinion on the overall reading experience. I have never enjoyed
reading a novel by a Bronte. It took me six tries to make it past
the first three chapters of Jane Eyre. And the only reason I made it
the last time was because it was required reading for an English
class. To me they always felt dense and forced in a way I don't
respond to that well. And I read books like this for fun. However,
the Brontes always felt like work.
The
issue I have that's going to get me hate mail is that I do not
understand, at all, how the books Jane Eyre and Wuthering
Heights are held up as romantic masterpieces. There is a major
disconnect for me between those stories and any idea of romance or
love.
Now,
before everyone gets up in arms, I totally understand the appeal of
the bad boy. A cursory glance at my dating history abundantly proves
that. It's a laundry list of straight-up bad boys and, far worse in
the long run, Eddie Haskell-type men. (I included the link for those under 30/ people not obsessed with Nick at Night in the late '80s.)
This list, along with my Wench-y personality traits totally explain
why I'm still single, but further exploration into that is material
for a different blog that would reach Tolstoy-esque length.
Sorry...Back
to the plot. For some reason these “bad boys” of literature
really just piss me off. If it were just a moody, temperamental man
with anger issues I would be on board, but Rochester and Heathcliff
take it to a scary, abusive, borderline psychopathic place. And as
much fun as I've had with bad boys if I had discovered one had an
insane wife locked away in the attic while being engaged to me I
think any sort of continued relationship would be out of the
question. Even if the wife eventually died. Seriously Jane, he did
it to one wife, the room's set up, who's to say he wouldn't
eventually shove you up there.*
As
for Heathcliff, he and Catherine together manage to ruin two families
for multiple generations out of some very misguided views on love and
revenge. And I understand the arguments that Catherine is a product
of her time, and to some extent I respect that, but there is still a
level of foolishly romantic child with little to no backbone that
propels the story to it's fairly awful end.
And
before the daggers appear at my throat, I do have a romantic side. I
hide it under a lot of black clothing and attitude, but put in the
movie Love, Actually and I'm a crying mess on the floor by the
end. I just can not understand the idea of romance that involves
such intense levels of lying and vengeance. And for women like the
Brontes who were flouting social convention by being writers, I guess
I've always been disappointed that the women in their novels seem to
get the bad end of the deal.
So
now between Team Edward and Team Bronte I'm popping on lit hit lists
all over the place. At least with Team Bronte I expect well-written,
correctly spelled death threats.
*Yes, I absolutely yell at fictional characters. They make well fleshed-out imaginary friends.
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