I don't suppose there's any way I can blame this on shadadukal?

(I wonder what VM did to prepare himself for this roll? Oh wait: no I don't.)

Book #31: Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte

That might have been the strangest book I've ever read.

I did like it. I am also really glad I didn't read it in high school.

I am kind of surprised that Bronte managed to come up with a character I wanted to punch in the neck more than Mr. Rochester. And boy, did I ever want to punch St John in the neck.

I...seriously, this is what happens to you when, in your childhood, you spend six months of the year with a basement full of dead people (and, to be honest, the other six months stuck living in Bradford have got to suck as well).

Next up: more conflicting feelings as I take on the 2011 movie adaptation. Um, tomorrow. After I sleep. Curled up with a stuffed antelope called Nikola.

ETA: I've figured it out! She's totally the Olivia Dunham of 1847 (once you adjust for, uh, well, inflation, I guess). Now everything makes perfect sense (and it explains why everything else about the story makes me so DESPERATELY uneasy while simultaneously wanting everyone to hug).