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marinessThe Heyer reread continues with a post about the wonderfully fluffy The Corinthian. (Try to ignore the cover image. Sourcebooks is attempting to save money by using what is more or less stock art, and usually it isn't too bad, although this is admittedly a miss.) Also over at Tor.com, Jo Walton has a fascinating post on the right age for reading books.
I get a lot of questions at Tor.com (and follow up questions on Twitter) on whether or not a book I'm discussing is really suitable for a child of whatever age. It's a tricky question to answer, in part because I think that each kid is different, so it's difficult to make a recommendation without knowing that particular kid, and in part because when I was seven, I was absolutely reading books that most adults would have considered inappropriate for my age. In fact, this got me into trouble more than once. The little library at our school was divided up by grade level -- kindergarten and first grade in one section, second to fifth grades in another section, sixth to eighth in another, and the high school books all the way over on the other side. The sections were strictly enforced and woe betide a little kindergartner who headed over to the second to fifth grade section because it was rumored to have real adventure books, or, far, far worse, a little first grader who trotted over to the high school section because it was rumored to have much better dinosaur books.
Not that I let that stop me.
I was so desperate for new things to read that I also grabbed whatever book my mother got from her reading club, generally some New York Times bestseller or other, circulated among expatriates on a weekly basis. Those were often great (from my perspective) but I more than suspect inappropriate. I loved it. I loved most of the "grown-up" books I got, even the grown-up books foisted on me by adults horrified to find out that when not reading grown up books, robot books, or dinosaur books I was merrily devouring Enid Blyton books, which my mother and grandfather both disapproved of for different reasons, but which I loved because I had no literary taste. So my reading, it could be mixed.
Jo Walton mentions Jane Eyre; interestingly, I was just discussing with someone how much my reactions to the end of that book have changed through the years. I'm not sure exactly when I encountered it – I was about ten or so – although I do remember thinking it wasn't nearly as good as other "old" or classic books – too much talking, not enough cool things going on, and that St. John guy was just creepy. In high school and college I liked it a lot more, certainly more than Wuthering Heights which is just full of characters I don't like. I thought the ending was romantic. And psychic. And romantic.
I'm still in agreement with the psychic part, but the ending of Jane Eyre now gives me chills.
Ok, yes, you're in love with the guy. I get that, even though he spent a large part of the novel belittling you and playing head games with you and another woman, and then kinda forgot to mention that, you know, he was married already. In most cases, Jane, this is what we call A Problem, and while it's all very nice that his current wife was insane enough to commit arson, this doesn't exactly mitigate the problem since this also means that he intended to have you live under the same roof with an arsonist. Who screamed a lot. And sure, he's blind and battered now (though regaining his eyesight) but this is a man who locks women up in the attic.
Oh, sure, he's better than St. John. But then again, anyone is better than St. John. My personal belief is that Charlotte Bronte went out of her way to emphasize the Annoyance That Is St. John just to make Mr. Rochester more respectable. And let's face it, Jane Eyre is not a novel filled with upstanding yet sexy and attractive men, making Mr. Rochester look good in comparison. Bronte was using the book, after all, in part to show her irritation and disappointment with Victorian men, so "better than Heathcliff" is probably all we could expect. But it doesn't stop me from wanting to yell, "Jane! Jane! You're independently wealthy now! Go travel! Write books! THINK ABOUT THIS FIRST!"
Oh well. At least in the closing chapters she sounds happy enough, and he was the first man to respect her intelligence and wit. And he's older than she is. Maybe she'll get the chance to head to France and Italy with one of those cousins for a companion yet.
I'm not the first to notice these issues, of course, but it makes me notice how much my responses to books can change based on my age – and based on what I'm thinking at the time. (This is going to be particularly true for some of the upcoming Heyer books -- Hi, Arabella.) Some books remain comfort reads, some become comfort reads, and some fade away. And some, like The Count of Monte Cristo, still demand to get read every year because no matter what my age, the dinner party at Anduril never gets old.
I get a lot of questions at Tor.com (and follow up questions on Twitter) on whether or not a book I'm discussing is really suitable for a child of whatever age. It's a tricky question to answer, in part because I think that each kid is different, so it's difficult to make a recommendation without knowing that particular kid, and in part because when I was seven, I was absolutely reading books that most adults would have considered inappropriate for my age. In fact, this got me into trouble more than once. The little library at our school was divided up by grade level -- kindergarten and first grade in one section, second to fifth grades in another section, sixth to eighth in another, and the high school books all the way over on the other side. The sections were strictly enforced and woe betide a little kindergartner who headed over to the second to fifth grade section because it was rumored to have real adventure books, or, far, far worse, a little first grader who trotted over to the high school section because it was rumored to have much better dinosaur books.
Not that I let that stop me.
I was so desperate for new things to read that I also grabbed whatever book my mother got from her reading club, generally some New York Times bestseller or other, circulated among expatriates on a weekly basis. Those were often great (from my perspective) but I more than suspect inappropriate. I loved it. I loved most of the "grown-up" books I got, even the grown-up books foisted on me by adults horrified to find out that when not reading grown up books, robot books, or dinosaur books I was merrily devouring Enid Blyton books, which my mother and grandfather both disapproved of for different reasons, but which I loved because I had no literary taste. So my reading, it could be mixed.
Jo Walton mentions Jane Eyre; interestingly, I was just discussing with someone how much my reactions to the end of that book have changed through the years. I'm not sure exactly when I encountered it – I was about ten or so – although I do remember thinking it wasn't nearly as good as other "old" or classic books – too much talking, not enough cool things going on, and that St. John guy was just creepy. In high school and college I liked it a lot more, certainly more than Wuthering Heights which is just full of characters I don't like. I thought the ending was romantic. And psychic. And romantic.
I'm still in agreement with the psychic part, but the ending of Jane Eyre now gives me chills.
Ok, yes, you're in love with the guy. I get that, even though he spent a large part of the novel belittling you and playing head games with you and another woman, and then kinda forgot to mention that, you know, he was married already. In most cases, Jane, this is what we call A Problem, and while it's all very nice that his current wife was insane enough to commit arson, this doesn't exactly mitigate the problem since this also means that he intended to have you live under the same roof with an arsonist. Who screamed a lot. And sure, he's blind and battered now (though regaining his eyesight) but this is a man who locks women up in the attic.
Oh, sure, he's better than St. John. But then again, anyone is better than St. John. My personal belief is that Charlotte Bronte went out of her way to emphasize the Annoyance That Is St. John just to make Mr. Rochester more respectable. And let's face it, Jane Eyre is not a novel filled with upstanding yet sexy and attractive men, making Mr. Rochester look good in comparison. Bronte was using the book, after all, in part to show her irritation and disappointment with Victorian men, so "better than Heathcliff" is probably all we could expect. But it doesn't stop me from wanting to yell, "Jane! Jane! You're independently wealthy now! Go travel! Write books! THINK ABOUT THIS FIRST!"
Oh well. At least in the closing chapters she sounds happy enough, and he was the first man to respect her intelligence and wit. And he's older than she is. Maybe she'll get the chance to head to France and Italy with one of those cousins for a companion yet.
I'm not the first to notice these issues, of course, but it makes me notice how much my responses to books can change based on my age – and based on what I'm thinking at the time. (This is going to be particularly true for some of the upcoming Heyer books -- Hi, Arabella.) Some books remain comfort reads, some become comfort reads, and some fade away. And some, like The Count of Monte Cristo, still demand to get read every year because no matter what my age, the dinner party at Anduril never gets old.