It took me a little longer than anticipated, due to unplanned forays through other novels, but I reached the end of Miss Eyre (or, should I say, Mrs Rochester). It was much as I predicted, although I couldn't have forseen the somewhat melodramatic loss of an eye and sight in the other. And a hand as well? Or am I making that up. Anyway, it turned out happily for all concerned, with the possible exception of St John, who didn't seem like he ever wanted to be happy. I'm not sure what the author intended us to think of him, but I thought he was the most miserable so-and-so ever, and didn't feel in the slightest bit sorry for him at all. I was hoping the 'heathens' in India would make him into a nice chicken tikka and save the rest of us from his prosaic proselytising (nice bit of alliteration).
I did enjoy it, although I still much prefer 'Pride and Prejudice' and even 'Emma'. I'm glad I read it though, and it was no hardship to do so. I read an article in the Telegraph over the weekend, by Nick Hornby, which basically advised people not to struggle through books they aren't enjoying. There is a bit of snobbery about what people read, and Hornby thinks it is far better to read something you enjoy and read more, than to push yourself through a novel you don't connect with and put yourself off reading in the future. I have to agree, although I shall be going against his advice on occasion with this list I think.
Ah well, onto the next book, which I am partway into (got a good few hours in on the train back and forth from Devon), which is...(see above)
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