the tale of Jane Eyre

It is the last day of the year 2010, a most trying year for me, and I am back to composing an entry for this blog site. I am not in my most cheerful moods today yet resolved to put either words into order or thoughts into words, and have likewise resolved to place random entries every convenient interval throughout the coming year.

I wish fervently that I were more enthusiastic at this present moment. Something has undoubtedly vexed me, and I find myself more disturbed in some sense--or should I say, more saddened?

These feelings arose when I started reading the Victorian novel entitled Jane Eyre. I am on vacation (until the third, that is) and I felt the longing to indulge into some classic stories; I have always cherished a perpetual interest in literature, a thirst for adventurous, intellectual, even provoking pieces of literary work--such joy in reading, sometimes being united with the author in thought, or lost in the plot as a spectator, maybe a detective or a student at times, a judge, or an active reader who looks into the emotions and actions of the book's principal actors. I am often lost in the imaginary world created by the talented, albeit I have the habit of checking whether their views in life, often revealed in a character's thought or soliloquy, are indeed worthy of praise and example, or differing widely to the set of rules in life which I feel to be just, right and ethical. One cannot simply take in certain ideas which are not in synchrony with his or her principles at all times.

I must say, though, that the first chapters of Jane Eyre exposed a sympathetic side of me. Tears just started to flow as I read how Jane Eyre, the novel's heroine, was physically abused as a child, how she was falsely accused in front of the other young girls who were her schoolmates, how she lost Helen Burns, such a dear friend who seemed to me as one with pureness of mind and spirit. It was just too much for a ten year old orphan, I thought to myself.

The next scenes in her life portrayed a mixture of events: amusing, horrifying, romantic, relieving, mysterious; the general air had been melancholic yet inspiring, for she pursued what she deemed was morally correct. In many instances, I accept the general trend of thought in Jane Eyre's very character; the reservation I have probably stems out from the different perspective I hold regarding life and that of the God's character.

I think that I shall never forget her story or the feelings stirred within me as I finished reading. There is no unaccounted praise for the love story. Perhaps I feign a simple prayer for her happiness, imaginary as the character is, which may truly be for those Jane Eyres who are living and breathing and hoping for tranquility and true happiness in spite of the trials and hardships in life.

In about five hours, a new year begins. May the Balm of Gilead heal the wounds, and strengthen us throughout another year.