The Taste of Sorrow by Jude Morgan

We are two days into 2013 and so far everything is going splendidly, which of course doesn't mean anything, but I'm taking it as a good omen. This review of Jude Morgan's The Taste of Sorrow is my first post in the new year and at the same time the first proper review I have written since the 6th of July. I was absent from blogging longer than I thought. Anyway, Jude Morgan's novel about the Brontë family was on my wishlist for a long time and when I got Atticus for Christmas and saw that the kindle edition only costs six euro (as opposed to eleven for the paperback) I didn't have to think long about which book should be my first e-book. There is something absolutely fascinating about this family: all children uniquely gifted writers, living secluded in their own little world, but haunted by tragedy. How could they manage to write books that changed the literary landscape forever? Who were the women who came up with Jane Eyre, Cathy and Heathcliff? Why did all of them die so young and how on earth could Charlotte survive the loss of almost her whole family? Perhaps it is exactly the comparative lack of information about their lives that makes their story so intriguing.

Jude Morgan wrote a fictionalized account of the Bröntës' lives, starting with the death of their mother and ending a little after Charlotte's marriage. Although all family members receive sufficient attention the novel's focus is clearly on Charlotte, something which you quickly notice through the style that - sometimes more, sometimes less drastically - seems to imitate Jane Eyre. I don't say that as criticism, in fact it was very appropriate, especially since Charlotte inevitably reminds the reader of her famous heroine. Of course there are differences between them: the "real" Charlotte Brontë is less outspoken and, naturally, less fortunate, but her personality in Morgan's portrayal is very similar to Jane's.
Again, I am not criticising  this, because Jane Eyre obviously is based on her author.

Unfortunately, I am not familiar enough with the details of the Bröntës' lives to judge how much of their feelings and thoughts in the novel are adapted from their real sentiments expressed in letters, diaries or stories, but I have to bow to Jude Morgan anyway for creating such believable characters.
Charlotte, Emily, Anne and Branwell are not just dusty entries in literary encyclopedias, but authentic, tangible people. If they did not exactly do or say the things as Morgan writes them, it is at least very easy to imagine that they could have done or said them. Whether it is Branwell's descent into alcoholism because he cannot bear the weight of expectations on him or Emily's inability to feel comfortable around people she cannot remember always loving; this novel draws very realistic pictures of the Brontë siblings' lives and personalities.
The only character I found a little one-dimensional is Anne, who is completely unselfish and only concerned with making the lives of her family members as easy as possible without regard to her own happiness, but then maybe that was Anne's role in her family. I don't know, but I am now eager to read her books.

With 464 pages this book was not too long, in fact it was a quick read, but it is maybe a little stretched in the middle and then too hurried when it comes to the development of the sisters' novels. About Emily's motivation to write Wuthering Heights the reader learns virtuallly nothing, for instance, and Charlotte's inspiration for Jane Eyre is also only outlined roughly. (Looking at her live I have to wonder where Mr. Rochester comes from.) But again, perhaps there simply is no existing information on these topics and Jude Morgan didn't want to invent anything. To be sure, it doesn't impair his novel much: The Taste of Sorrow is a great book for anyone interested in the Brontës and I am looking forward to reading more from Jude Morgan, his novels on Shakespeare and the romantic poets for example.

Half a Year, twenty Books and a whole new Person

It is the first week of July and halway-through-the-year-posts are mushrooming everywhere over the blogging community. Of course I meant to join the general trend anyway with an update on my reading challenges, my progress in personal life as well as in reading and plans for the rest of the year, but until last night I had no idea how much this past half-year really changed me.

Yesterday I was sitting on the balcony and reading Wuthering Heights when my sister came by in a very bad mood and asked how I could read such boring books. Needless to say, she never read Wuthering Heights or any other Brontë, in fact the only classics she ever touched were a few German and Austrian books she absolutely had to read for school. Never did she read or even want to read an English classic, she knows nothing of Dicken's adorable characters apart from what she saw in the Mickey Mouse adaptation of A Christmas Carol, she never stayed up until the early hours of the morning to finish a case with Sherlock Holmes and if you mentioned the name Wilkie Collins in her presence I'm sure she would think you were talking about a woman. More than anything, she never read a thought which so essentially mirrored the depths of her soul that the author must have known her, must have written these sentences about her because surely no one else in the world could feel exactly the same, just to be reminded that those thoughts were published hundreds of years before she was born.

How dare she call the classics boring and stupid when she has never read them? To say it with her own words: because they are old, and old books cannot be interesting. She is not able to imagine that maybe even when an author wrote his book by hand and had never heard of a thing like the telephone he may have felt the same feelings as she does and captured them in his writings. She cannot envision that she will feel less alone because in Jane Eyre there is a girl who thinks exactly the same way she does and who is entirely so like herself that the fact that she never lived matters little. She knows nothing of kindred spirits.
And, despite my angry attempt to explain all this to her, she can't waste her time trying to read something which she knows to be absolutely boring when there are so many good, i.e. new (fantasy) books out there.

After our argument I was furious because she condemned something I love without knowing anything about it, without giving it a chance and without listening. A little later I was sad, because I realised that most people think like my sister and that in fact I don't know anyone in real life who reads the way I do. While I love the blogging community and find it wonderful to exchange thoughts and opinions with all of you I cannot help feeling lonely at times because I can never have a face-to-face discussion about the books I read with anyone. Anyway, right now I'm feeling neither sad nor lonely, but happy and thankful for this past half-year.

I started reading the classics and simultaneously blogging in December, so now I am looking back on the first half-year of reading classic literature in my life. Not counting a few non-classic titles, I have read twenty books until now. That is not much, but you cannot imagine how much those twenty titles have changed me. Half a year ago I would have shrugged and wondered a little about it if someone had told me that all books written before 1900 were boring, now I am starting a fiery argument because those twenty books turned me into someone else. They changed me because A Tale of Two Cities made me turn pages quicker than the finale of Harry Potter could and because the love story in Jane Eyre captivated me more than the one in Twilight. Even though I am still a raw beginner, have not read a tenth of what I would like to have finished by now and in all honesty know virtually nothing about literature, I feel like I have progressed immensely. I may not be doing too well in my reading challenges, which is rather I am failing them epically, but I am not worried at all. Firstly, I have two months of holidays before me to catch up and will probably read from sun-up to sun-down and secondly I feel that I have already learned that which is most important and which so many never do because they are either too lazy or to prejudiced: to love the classics with all my heart.

Back Home

It's been exactly two weeks since my last post and any other life sign from me. I do apologise, but there's a reason for my complete disappearance: I have been travelling England, from Gateshead to Morton, but Thornfield Hall was my favourite place by far.
For those of you not familiar with these names: during the last fortnight I have spent every free minute reading what I dare to call one of my favourite books ever, Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë.

This book! It's been ages since anything captured me so much, I even read during my piano lessons (don't ask me how that's possible) and I freaked out about it like other girls do about boygroups. Reading slump? What was that again?

There was hardly anything about this book not to love: the passionate and clever heroine, the stormy atmosphere, the mystery, the heartache, the lyrical yet fast paced writing and Mr Rochester of course, oh Mr Rochester!

I normally disapprove of books named after their main characters, but in this case I found it totally justified. Little Jane had my understanding when she hid from her cousins in order to read; by the time she hurt horrible John in defense against his attack with the book she had won me over. I could not get enough of Jane, especially since she reminded me to my immense surprise a lot of myself. Some friends who had read the book also noticed the resemblance; this went so far that I couldn't read in their presence anymore because of all the "Oh, she's exactly like you!", which was really nice considering that Jane is described as plain throughout the book (mind you, I am not saying they weren't right. I'll have to take it like Mr Rochester.) The good side is that I completely agreed with all of Jane's decisions and never got annoyed by them, not even by her hastened departure from Thornfield Hall; which brings us to Mr Rochester.

Leaving aside the fact that my fondness for Byronic heroes should probably start to worry me I cannot help loving this man! Some of his conversations with Jane are downright hilarious and had me laughing out loud. Which other Victorian gentleman discusses fairies with his daughter's governess in all earnestness? At other times he was so sweet that he became the subject of a whole lot of my daydreams. Of course the mysterious ambiance about Mr Rochester added to his charms, but that does not mean that I wasn't angry with him sometimes too, namely then when he needed Jane's help but didn't regard it necessary to impart her his secret (at that time I didn't know what a heartbreaking secret it was). I think I need not mention how shocked I was when I found out how injured he'd been in the fire and neither how almost physically relieved I was when he regained part of his sight.

Along with these two impressive characters came two other to join the Walk of infamy of my most disliked book characters ever. Perhaps you'll be surprised to find that none of the Reed family is included here, cruel as they were, but in my opinion Jane quickly grew so superior to them that they could hardly really harm her. Mr Brocklehurst in contrast I despised with all my heart, perhaps because not only strong little Jane but dozens of other poor girls were completely at his mercy; children whom he should have helped and provided for lovingly, instead he treated them doubtlessly worse than the pets of his own daughters, a fault of his character which did not blight his self-righteousness in the least.

The other man I was not overly fond of -though I didn't dislike him half as much as Mr Brocklehurst- is St John Rivers. He was so cold and hard, and while I (like Jane) admired him for his good qualities at first, his persistency in demanding Jane to marry him repelled me as much as his complete refusal of any other point of view than his own. Furthermore I found it rather presumptuous that he regarded Jane as more or less damned only because she would not join him in his missionary life.

Jane Eyre is a book that I see mysel rereading many, many times: I am already tempted to recommence it. I am thoroughly amazed how thrilling and yet romantic it is, and it has proved something essential to me: It is actually possible for a love story to have a plot.

This is a revelation some authors never had (yes, Jane Austen, I am talking about you!).