This makes just one of many Jane Eyre run-ins I’ve had. We first became acquainted around the 5th grade (for me, not Jane Eyre). I’m not sure what possessed me but I decided to tackle this behemoth of a book. It was by far the longest book I’d ever read up until that point. I can’t say I necessarily understood the entire thing, but I was so proud of myself for reading it… and even liking it.
A few years later, I had to read Jane Eyre again for school, and this time it probably sunk in a little more, but I liked it just as much if I recall.
Now, more than just a few years later, I hardly remember the plot, but I do think of Jane Eyre fondly. And it’s nice to get another peak into that literary world through the lense of The House on Fortune Street. Maybe I know a thing about Brit Lit after all. Though I still know next to nothing about Keats.