Reading Jane Eyre at 13

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The loneliness of the long-distance reader

This is the English version of a text previously published in French. All posts in Learner Tales are published in both languages … eventually.

I grew up and went to school in England, so I had to navigate my way through a fair number of classics from English Literature. If asked to pick out a particular book, just one, which had a particular effect, I find not just a book but a whole reading experience. The events about to be described take place when I am 13.

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë is required reading for Mrs Fullerton’s Literature class. We have three weeks. But I have been resisting the prospect of reading real books for a while now. I am more interested in the mobility of playing football and rugby, and getting to matches on my bike, than the immobility of reading books. Let’s say that I have been postponing things. On the Saturday morning of the final weekend of the three-week reading period, push comes to shove. On Monday, in class, I’ll need to know enough to dig into my knowledge of Jane Eyre to do whatever is required. For the moment, all I really know of the book is its cover which, in Penguin Classics edition, carries a self-portrait by the author.

The inevitable read

Now, with the deadline just days away, I find myself facing the daunting prospect of the obligation to read the book. When I finally make the decision to begin reading, I am standing upright facing the top bunk of the bedroom which I share with my brother, Simon. I have placed the book calmly on the bed in front of me at about chest height and, with a mixture of fear and relief, I accept the inevitable read. Chapter One.

I move slowly through the opening chapters, struggling not to look at the page numbers. It’s pure torture. Never have numbers gone by so slowly.

Little by little, the screen in my mind comes to life in spite of myself, and I visualise Jane’s ordeals as I melt into the film of the story. From reader to long-distance runner, I cease thinking about how far I have to go and push away any thoughts of the pain I feel. Without asking questions, I just keep moving forward, taking however long it takes, however many pages there are.

As time passes, I pay less and less attention to the pages. The words run together, curling into long sentences as the scenes and the characters follow one after another.

The narrative quilt

I do all this standing up, completely oblivious to the reality of the house around me – the opening and shutting of doors, the flushing of the toilet, the conversations, the laughter and the shouts.

I can feel the narrative quilt around my shoulders. The only movements I allow myself concern tilting the book now and then so I can read more easily, plus turning the pages. As I accompany Jane to the different places she goes to interact with the various people she encounters, the weight of the book becomes indistinguishable from the baggage she carries with her – and which I carry for her, ever the helpful reader. At first, the bags seem heavier on the right and lighter on the left but, as the pages turn, the weight shifts, becoming lighter on the right and heavier on the left.

I accept to have Jane await me while I share a midday meal with my own family. That feat accomplished, I once more climb the stairs back to my room and plunge once more, absorbed into this parallel world.

You Jane, me Tarzan

Then suddenly, in what seems like no time at all, it’s the final chapter. Conclusion? It’s written there on the page. How did that happen? Did I really get here? I’m exhausted, almost disappointed. But I’ve done it. I’ve read the book.

I feel a sense of pride. The apocryphal line from Johnny Weissmuller comes to mind : Me Tarzan, you Jane – at 13, my cultural markers are pretty free-form. But, probably out of respect for Charlotte Brontë‘s character, as I gaze one last time at the cover of the book I’ve just finished, the famous quote reshuffles itself. In a low voice, audible only to myself I say : You Jane, me Tarzan. See you in class on Monday.

Learner Tale

This first Learner Tale for what I hope will be a series mixing some personal experiences and tales from others. It was originally written in French for an exhibition entitled Le livre coup de cœur de mon adolescence put together by the staff of the Media Centre at the school where I worked from 2014-2022, Lycée Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France. Thanks to Bertrand, Lucile and Laurence for coming up with the charming idea of inviting members of staff to write about a book they read when they were teenagers so that today’s teenagers, their students, could read it! The French version of the text is here.

Acknowledgements

Two sources were particularly helpful in rewriting the online version of the initial text :

• Megan Mulder at the Z. Smith Reynold Library, Wake Forest University, North Carolina for her article on Jane Eyre. The photos of the original text in English come from this source.
• The site keystoliteracy.com for a publication on the part the brain plays in learning to read.