The right Book

I am sitting here surrounded by piles of books. There are at least thirty books I haven't read yet stacked on my desk, on my cupboards and even on the floor; they range from Oliver Twist to The Catcher in the Rye and I have bought all of them because I knew I would enjoy reading them. How come then that during the last few days I picked up every single book, started reading it and found not one that appealed to me?
Yesterday I ventured out at my parents' shelves, almost desperate to find a book I would want to read and came across The Divine Comedy there, which instantly fascinated me, so my dilemma is already sorted out, but it left me wondering why some books sometimes just don't feel right.

I think everyone has already experienced that a book which seemed boring or even bad at a certain point in your life turned out to be absolutely amazing and intriguing when you gave it another try some years later, or the other way round. Human beings tend to be only interested in things they can at least remotely relate to and usually we like a book the better the more we can identify with its characters and their situation. A very good example of that is my experience with Jane Eyre, which came just at the right time: for most parts of it Jane is a young woman, strong-willed but socially unskilled and unversed in interpreting her own feelings and those of others. I doubt I would have loved this book so much if I had not been able to relate so completely to her position.
We do not stop to develop and mature until we die, in fact at fifty years we are not even the same persons we were when we were twenty and so it is obvious that one and the same book affects us differently at different stages throughout our lives.

There is more to it, though. A good book creates a certain atmosphere, it evokes a special feeling within us. It has a distinctive ambiance which makes us feel like coming home whenever we turn its pages after having read it once. These feelings are hard to put into words, but I am convinced that every passionate reader understands what I mean. Sometimes a novel fails to captivate us simply because it is not in line with our current mood.
Even the season makes a difference at times, in summer I am usually drawn to other books than in winter.
Another important factor is the amount of concentration we are prepared to spend on a book: now and then we want a light read because we only want to drift with the flow of a story without anylysing too much, but at other times we need something demanding that fully absorbs our concentration.

Not all is lost if we surprisingly dislike a book we expected to love, sometimes it is just that the time is wrong. For now I am content with The Divine Comedy and I know that soon I will again be in the mood to pick up a book I dismissed as boring only yesterday.

Introducing Rochester

Growing up with two brothers and one sister can be tough sometimes. It definitely is when all of them would preferably spend the whole day in front of a screen, the younger ones playing computer games and the older one working for school and surfing the internet, especially when there is only one ancient computer at home.
I usually have to write my posts in the middle of the night because that's the only time when said computer isn't occupied and whenever I try to shoo my brothers away from their games during the afternoon in order to do my homework the scenario surprisingly much resembles World War II.
However, it doesn't matter anymore because yesterday I have received the most amazing Easter/very early birthday present ever:

Ta-da-da-dam! This is my new Acer Aspire, a laptop which belongs to nobody but me! Apparently I have been moaning about needing a computer successfully, so when my father was shopping in an electric shop and saw the special offer everything played out more than well.
His name is Rochester, paying homage to Jane Eyre, and yes, my wallpaper is a picture of the University of Cambridge...if my classmates find out!
That I have received Rochester means three things:

1. There will probably be more life signs from me (posts, comments etc.),
2. I have finally created a Goodreads profile,
3. Saying that I'm happy would be the understatement of the year.

Should there be anyone whom I have not yet bombarded with friendship requests on Goodreads, please add me. I hope you are all having as nice a weekend as I do and a belated Happy Easter!

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!).