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Jane Eyre (Penguin Classics) Paperback – August 15, 2006

by Charlotte Brontë (Author)

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Charlotte Brontë's moving masterpiece – the novel that has been "teaching true strength of character for generations" (The Guardian). Nominated as one of America’s best-loved novels by PBS’s The Great American Read

A novel of intense power and intrigue, Jane Eyre has dazzled generations of readers with its depiction of a woman's quest for freedom. Having grown up an orphan in the home of her cruel aunt and at a harsh charity school, Jane Eyre becomes an independent and spirited survivor-qualities that serve her well as governess at Thornfield Hall. But when she finds love with her sardonic employer, Rochester, the discovery of his terrible secret forces her to make a choice. Should she stay with him whatever the consequences or follow her convictions, even if it means leaving her beloved? This updated Penguin Classics edition features a new introduction by Brontë scholar and award-winning novelist Stevie Davies, as well as comprehensive notes, a chronology, further reading, and an appendix.

For more than seventy years, Penguin has been the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world. With more than 1,700 titles, Penguin Classics represents a global bookshelf of the best works throughout history and across genres and disciplines. Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators.

Print length

624 pages
Language

English
Publisher

Penguin Classics
Publication date

August 15, 2006
Reading age

18 years and up
Dimensions

5.08 x 1.04 x 7.76 inches
ISBN-10

9780141441146
ISBN-13

978-0141441146
Lexile measure

GN840L
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Editorial Reviews

Review

"At the end we are steeped through and through with the genius, the vehemence, the indignation of Charlotte Brontë."
--Virginia Woolf

About the Author

Charlotte Bronte (1816-55), sister of Anne Bronte and Emily Bronte. Jane Eyre appeared in 1847 and was followed by Shirley (1848) and Vilette (1853). In 1854 Charlotte Bronte married her father's curate, Arthur Bell Nicholls. She died during her pregnancy on March 31, 1855 in Haworth, Yorkshire. The Professor was posthumously published in 1857.

Dr Stevie Davis is a novelist, critic and historian. She is Director of Creative writing at the University of Wales Swansea. She is the author of four books on Emily Bronte, three novels, and three books in the Penguin Critical Studies series.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further outdoor exercise was now out of the question.

I was glad of it; I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed.

The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mamma in the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying) looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from joining the group, saying, "She regretted to be under the necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard from Bessie, and could discover by her own observation that I was endeavouring in good earnest to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and sprightly manner--something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were--she really must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy little children."

"What does Bessie say I have done?" I asked.

"Jane, I don't like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent."

A small breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there. It contained a bookcase; I soon possessed myself of a volume, taking care that it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into the window-seat: gathering up my feet, I sat crosslegged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double retirement.

Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves in my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near, a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast.

I returned to my book--Bewick's History of British Birds: the letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and yet there were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not pass quite as a blank. They were those which treat of the haunts of sea-fowl; of "the solitary rocks and promontories" by them only inhabited; of the coast of Norway, studded with isles from its southern extremity, the Lindeness, or Naze, to the North Cape--

Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls,

Boils round the naked, melancholy isles

Of farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge

Pours in among the stormy Hebrides.

Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak shores of Lapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Iceland, Greenland, with "the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone, and those forlorn regions of dreary space--that reservoir of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the accumulation of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights above heights, surround the pole, and concentre the multiplied rigours of extreme cold." Of these death-white realms I formed an idea of my own: shadowy, like all the half-comprehended notions that float dim through children's brains, but strangely impressive. The words in these introductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes, and gave significance to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow and spray; to the broken boat stranded on a desolate coast; to the cold and ghastly moon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking.

I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary churchyard, with its inscribed headstone; its gate, its two trees, its low horizon, girdled by a broken wall, and its newly risen crescent, attesting the hour of eventide.

The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to be marine phantoms.

The fiend pinning down the thief's pack behind him, I passed over quickly: it was an object of terror.

So was the black, horned thing seated aloof on a rock, surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows.

Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting: as interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings, when she chanced to be in good humour; and when, having brought her ironing-table to the nursery-hearth, she allowed us to sit about it, and while she got up Mrs. Reed's lace frills, and crimped her nightcap borders, fed our eager attention with passages of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and older ballads; or (as at a later period I discovered) from the pages of Pamela, and Henry, Earl of Moreland.

With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy at least in my way. I feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The breakfast-room door was opened.

"Boh! Madam Mope!" cried the voice of John Reed; then he paused: he found the room apparently empty.

"Where the dickens is she?" he continued. "Lizzy! Georgy! (calling to his sisters) Jane is not here: tell mamma she is run out into the rain--bad animal!"

"It is well I drew the curtain," thought I, and I wished fervently he might not discover my hiding-place: nor would John Reed have found it out himself; he was not quick either of vision or conception; but Eliza just put her head in at the door, and said at once: "She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack."

And I came out immediately, for I trembled at the idea of being dragged forth by the said Jack.

"What do you want?" I asked with awkward diffidence.

"Say, 'what do you want, Master Reed,' " was the answer. "I want you to come here"; and seating himself in an arm-chair, he intimated by a gesture that I was to approach and stand before him.

John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four years older than I, for I was but ten; large and stout for his age, with a dingy and unwholesome skin; thick lineaments in a spacious visage, heavy limbs and large extremities. He gorged himself habitually at table, which made him bilious, and gave him a dim and bleared eye with flabby cheeks. He ought now to have been at school; but his mamma had taken him home for a month or two, "on account of his delicate health." Mr. Miles, the master, affirmed that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes and sweetmeats sent him from home; but the mother's heart turned from an opinion so harsh, and inclined rather to the more refined idea that John's sallowness was owing to over-application, and, perhaps, to pining after home.

John had not much affection for his mother and sisters, and an antipathy to me. He bullied and punished me; not two or three times in the week, nor once or twice in a day, but continually: every nerve I had feared him, and every morsel of flesh on my bones shrank when he came near. There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror he inspired, because I had no appeal whatever against either his menaces or his inflictions; the servants did not like to offend their young master by taking my part against him, and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the subject: she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me, though he did both now and then in her very presence; more frequently, however, behind her back.

Habitually obedient to John, I came up to his chair: he spent some three minutes in thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he could without damaging the roots: I knew he would soon strike, and while dreading the blow, I mused on the disgusting and ugly appearance of him who would presently deal it. I wonder if he read that notion in my face; for, all at once, without speaking, he struck suddenly and strongly. I tottered, and on regaining my equilibrium retired back a step or two from his chair.

"That is for your impudence in answering mamma a while since," said he, "and for your sneaking way of getting behind curtains, and for the look you had in your eyes two minutes since, you rat!"

Accustomed to John Reed's abuse, I never had an idea of replying to it: my care was how to endure the blow which would certainly follow the insult.

"What were you doing behind the curtain?" he asked.

"I was reading."

"Show the book."

I returned to the window and fetched it thence.

"You have no business to take our books; you are a dependant, mamma says; you have no money; your father left you none; you ought to beg, and not to live here with gentlemen's children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and wear clothes at our mamma's expense. Now, I'll teach you to rummage my bookshelves: for they are mine; all the house belongs to me, or will do in a few years. Go and stand by the door, out of the way of the mirror and the windows."

I did so, not at first aware what was his intention; but when I saw him lift and poise the book and stand in act to hurl it, I instinctively started aside with a cry of alarm: not soon enough, however; the volume was flung, it hit me, and I fell, striking my head against the door and cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had passed its climax; other feelings succeeded.

"Wicked and cruel boy!" I said. "You are like a murderer--you are like a slave-driver--you are like the Roman emperors!"

I had read Goldsmith's History of Rome, and had formed my opinion of Nero, Caligula, &c. Also I had drawn parallels in silence, which I never thought thus to have declared aloud.

"What! what!" he cried. "Did she say that to me? Did you hear her, Eliza and Georgiana? Won't I tell mamma? but first--"

He ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulder: he had closed with a desperate thing. I really saw in him a tyrant: a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of somewhat pungent suffering: these sensations for the time predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic sort. I don't very well know what I did with my hands, but he called me "Rat! rat!" and bellowed out aloud. Aid was near him: Eliza and Georgiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was gone upstairs; she now came upon the scene, followed by Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted: I heard the words--

"Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at Master John!"

"Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion!"

Then Mrs. Reed subjoined: "Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in there." Four hands were immediately laid upon me, and I was borne upstairs.

Chapter Two

I resisted all the way: a new thing for me, and a circumstance which greatly strengthened the bad opinion Bessie and Miss Abbot were disposed to entertain of me. The fact is, I was a trifle beside myself; or rather out of myself, as the French would say. I was conscious that a moment's mutiny had already rendered me liable to strange penalties, and, like any other rebel slave, I felt resolved, in my desperation, to go all lengths.

"Hold her arms, Miss Abbot: she's like a mad cat."

"For shame, for shame!" cried the lady's-maid. "What shocking conduct, Miss Eyre, to strike a young gentleman, your benefactress's son! Your young master."

"Master! How is he my master? Am I a servant?"

"No; you are less than a servant, for you do nothing for your keep. There, sit down, and think over your wickedness."

They had got me by this time into the apartment indicated by Mrs. Reed, and had thrust me upon a stool: my impulse was to rise from it like a spring; their two pair of hands arrested me instantly.

"If you don't sit still, you must be tied down," said Bessie. "Miss Abbot, lend me your garters; she would break mine directly."

Miss Abbot turned to divest a stout leg of the necessary ligature. This preparation for bonds, and the additional ignominy it inferred, took a little of the excitement out of me.

"Don't take them off," I cried; "I will not stir."

In guarantee whereof, I attached myself to my seat by my hands.

"Mind you don't," said Bessie; and when she had ascertained that I was really subsiding, she loosened her hold of me; then she and Miss Abbot stood with folded arms, looking darkly and doubtfully on my face, as incredulous of my sanity.

"She never did so before," at last said Bessie, turning to the Abigail.

"But it was always in her," was the reply. "I've told missis often my opinion about the child, and missis agreed with me. She's an underhand little thing: I never saw a girl of her age with so much cover."

Bessie answered not; but ere long, addressing me, she said:

"You ought to be aware, miss, that you are under obligations to Mrs. Reed: she keeps you: if she were to turn you off you would have to go to the poorhouse."

I had nothing to say to these words: they were not new to me: my very first recollections of existence included hints of the same kind. This reproach of my dependence had become a vague singsong in my ear; very painful and crushing, but only half intelligible. Miss Abbot joined in:

"And you ought not to think yourself on an equality with the Misses Reed and Master Reed, because missis kindly allows you to be brought up with them. They will have a great deal of money and you will have none: it is your place to be humble, and to try to make yourself agreeable to them."

"What we tell you is for your good," added Bessie, in no harsh voice: "you should try to be useful and pleasant, then, perhaps, you would have a home here; but if you become passionate and rude, missis will send you away, I am sure."

"Besides," said Miss Abbot, "God will punish her: He might strike her dead in the midst of her tantrums, and then where would she go? Come, Bessie, we will leave her: I wouldn't have her heart for anything. Say your prayers, Miss Eyre, when you are by yourself; for if you don't repent, something bad might be permitted to come down the chimney and fetch you away."

Product details

ASIN ‏ : ‎ 0141441143
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Penguin Classics; Reprint edition (August 15, 2006)
Language ‏ : ‎ English
Paperback ‏ : ‎ 624 pages
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 9780141441146
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-0141441146
Reading age ‏ : ‎ 18 years and up
Lexile measure ‏ : ‎ GN840L
Item Weight ‏ : ‎ 15 ounces
Dimensions ‏ : ‎ 5.08 x 1.04 x 7.76 inches

Best Sellers Rank: #4,229 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #116 in Regency Romances
- #164 in Classic Literature & Fiction
- #536 in Literary Fiction (Books)

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Castus

A beautiful masterpiece

Reviewed in the United States 🇺🇸 on November 10, 2021

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SPOILER ALERT

It’s not hard to see why Jane Eyre is considered a masterpiece. The first that becomes apparent is the author Charlotte Brontë’s deeply beautiful command of the English language throughout the novel, with descriptions of vengeance like:

"Something of vengeance I had tasted for the first time. As aromatic wine it seemed, on swallowing, warm and racy; its after-flavour, metallic and corroding, gave me a sensation as if I had been poisoned."

Or something even akin to prose poetry when the protagonist discusses cold and icy lands:

"Of these death-white realms I formed an idea of my own: shadowy, like all the half-comprehended notions that float dim through children’s brains, but strangely impressive. The words in these introductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes, and gave significance to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow and spray; to the broken boat stranded on a desolate coast; to the cold and ghastly moon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking."

But it’s a lot more than imagery that makes Jane Eyre remarkable. The eponymous protagonist and the first person narrative that she is rendered to us in was revolutionary for its time for being incredibly psychological and intimate. Jane is profoundly communicative and lets us know her every thought, feeling, and emotion through a level of intimacy that is only familiar to us when speaking to a very close best friend. One cannot overstate the emotional vigor of the novel and how easy it is for the reader to relate to Jane’s experiences. For example, when she begins to fall for someone, she poetically describes the fine details of the man’s face, the mental insecurity over whether or not it’s reciprocal, and the anxious spilling of a cup of coffee as she awaits news concerning him.

Much has been discussed about the political, moral, and religious content present in Jane Eyre, and while in many cases Brontë is not overt with her ideology but rather shrouds it in symbolism, it would be hard to not describe the literary work as mostly progressive or left-wing. The novel was published only months before the Revolutions of 1848 in Europe, and in many ways it captures some of the radical spirit that began to brew just prior. The feminism of Jane Eyre is clear: when Jane finally marries Rochester at the end, she does this through a much more egalitarian and noncoercive position previously brought about by a previous ascension to a social class equal to Rochester’s. Additionally, in an earlier chapter, Jane explicitly herself polemicizes to the reader that it’s ignorant to condemn women to things like sewing and playing the piano just because it’s the custom of that gender. On the other hand, it’s possible to argue that Jane Eyre’s progressivism has limitations because of the way it has depicted Bertha Rochester, a woman of color, and that this depiction of her being essentially demonic in nature is potentially representative of 19th century colonialism and racism.

Jane Eyre is undeniably a work that is full of Christian ideology, but it’s also difficult to characterize this Christianity as merely evangelist and doctrinal. If it was, Brontë could have ended the story by having Jane accept St. John’s marriage proposal and devote the rest of her life to evangelist pursuits in India for the glory of her religion, and the work would likely have never entered the mainstream secular canon. On the other hand, Jane’s severely reluctant and painful decision to initially leave Rochester and his genuine love for her because he was legally married to another woman (and despite it being a loveless marriage) was a memorable scene vastly important for demonstrating both Jane’s individualism and her commitment to a certain level of Christian morality. At other times, the presence of Christianity in the work is more symbolic and beautifully fused with imagery:

"I must keep to my post, however. I must watch this ghastly countenance—these blue, still lips forbidden to unclose—these eyes now shut, now opening, now wandering through the room, now fixing on me, and ever glazed with the dulness of horror. I must dip my hand again and again in the basin of blood and water, and wipe away the trickling gore. I must see the light of the unsnuffed candle wane on my employment; the shadows darken on the wrought, antique tapestry round me, and grow black under the hangings of the vast old bed, and quiver strangely over the doors of a great cabinet opposite—whose front, divided into twelve panels, bore, in grim design, the heads of the twelve apostles, each enclosed in its separate panel as in a frame; while above them at the top rose an ebon crucifix and a dying Christ."

Despite the frequent ideological questions surrounding the work, Jane Eyre is a romance novel at its heart, and that means its appeal is universal. It’s a must read for any person with even a passing interest in literature, and simply one of the greatest pieces of fiction ever written. Brontë’s capability in being able to not only develop highly three-dimensional characters and a riveting plot but to do so through a poetic use of language makes her equal parts writer and artist. Jane Eyre is thus a moving painting, a painting that depicts matters as intellectual as feminism and as familiar and emotional as love.

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steve ciaravino

good

Reviewed in the United States 🇺🇸 on February 4, 2023

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physical book is in good condition. was not missing any pages. worth the price

Reviewed in the United States 🇺🇸 on April 23, 2007

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There is so much to be said for this novel that it's difficult to know where to begin. It is a superb evocation of a time and place; it is a complex, detailed character study; it has a believable and compelling plot; and, more than anything else, it is a magnificent love story.

Of course, love stories are the common denominator of human existence and have been the subject of literature since mankind first put charcoal to rock, so the fact that Jane Eyre is a love story is nothing terribly significant. No, what makes this novel so special is the thoughtfulness with which its narrator, Jane Eyre herself, documents her love affair. She is extremely intelligent, she carefully analyzes her feelings and actions, and she is scrupulously honest with both herself and her reader. This is what sets it apart: it is the depth of these thoughts and feelings that make the novel interesting. Beyond that, though, it is the character of Jane, slowly revealed, that makes the novel a delight.

The plot is Jane's story. Orphaned, she is sent to live with her cruel aunt and cousins. At the age of ten she is sent away for good to a charity school, at which she gets her education, but which is run in such a miserly fashion that many of the students there actually die of disease and starvation. Jane survives, and at the age of eighteen, is able to secure a position as a governess to a child in a great house of England: Thornfield Hall. It is owned by Edward Rochester, the man who will become the centerpiece of her life.

How the two begin to slowly realize their affection for one another, how they then cautiously begin to act on their feelings, and how they must then surmount the obstacles in their path--both societal and self-inflicted--are what make up the bulk of the novel. There are at least a few surprises along the way. The strong-willed Jane's moral code requires that she respond to these difficulties in certain ways. It is to the novel's and the author's great credit that these decisions are never simply made; Jane agonizes over them in heart-wrenching fashion. As in life, the standards one chooses to live by can be difficult to maintain.

This defining tension is what drives the novel, but that it is delivered in such a skillful and assured way is what raises it to its lofty status. The dialogue, particularly, is fantastic. It is the stuff of an actor's dream: much of it can be interpreted in several different ways. Jane describes Rochester as being moody and tempestuous, and he often is, but at the same time--particularly after Jane agrees to marry him--he is hilariously wry and bemused. Jane comes across as being earnest and pleading, but she can be very playful and is often flirtatious. As mentioned above, these are deep, achingly human characters.

The setting is also very evocative. The English countryside, class system and moral understanding were obviously familiar to those who read the book in Ms. Bronte's day, and probably familiar to many of us in this day and age. Nevertheless, Ms. Bronte took the time to document these things carefully. The descriptions of Rochester's home, the lanes in front if it and its orchards and fields; the destitute and grimly cold school for girls; and the small country town where Jane makes the acquaintance of a small group of benefactors towards the end of the novel are all a testament to life as it existed at this distant time and age.

The novel is looked upon as a classic and should be. Ms. Bronte not only created a beautiful piece having to do with the nature of love--personal to her but universal in nature--but did so in such a spectacular way that she actually makes the reader feel this love, both for her creation, and for her.

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Top reviews from other countries

Caroline

Marvellous Classic Read

Reviewed in the United Kingdom 🇬🇧 on August 10, 2020

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Written in 1847, this novel is simply marvellous. Jane is an incredible character, strong, determined and focused on living a simple, plain Victorian life. She is a woman who knows her own values and in the face of strong, dominating characters such as Rochester and St John Rivers, chooses not to be swayed from her path. In Victorian Society where women were expected to be compliant, Jane is a breath of fresh air. The Victorian humility is there, but also there is an inherent sense of right and wrong. Jane, (politely) declines offers to be a mistress, or a wife in loveless marriage. But please do not doubt that Jane herself is cold, she has passion! This is witnessed in the relationship between Jane and Edward Rochester, where the conversation sparkles and Jane more than holds her own here.

Bold, passionate, modest and wonderful.

5 people found this helpful

Somac

Classic

Reviewed in the United Kingdom 🇬🇧 on November 5, 2022

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I re-read this book many years after studying it at school. It’s a classic story of course and one of literature’s great stories, beautifully written from Jane’s perspective of life and love. It is essentially a female David Copperfield!
Jane has a very rough start in life, but it doesn’t really last long. She is sent to an awful school but even there she makes supportive friends and eventually becomes a teacher there. But Jane is ambitious and wants to live her life so she gets a job as a governess at Thornfield. Here she meets the formidable man who ends up falling for our dimunutive heroine. Yep, that’s how life works! There’s the inevitable class conflict but whaddya know, it all works out in the end when, after a midnight flit, a chance encounter and yet another admirer, Jane ends up inheriting a fortune and gets the man of her dreams. It’s all a bit convenient and lucky. She lands on her feet plenty of times. Is that believable? Not really but I guess the author is indulging her fantasies and she has a real love for Jane and given the autobiographical slant that’s to be expected. My take away? - Who doesn’t dream of meeting up with our ex years later to find them blind and missing an arm! Delicious. If only real life mirrored art.

Bristol Book Blogger 📚📖📓

A good example of how to write a mystery

Reviewed in the United Kingdom 🇬🇧 on March 23, 2020

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The premise is good and captures the reader from the offset but the middle wanders aimlessly, only to catch up at the end. It reads like a memoir yet you know it's not. Many modern novels are based on classics such as Jayne Eyre because women's contemporary fiction stems from these types of novels. Written in first person and showing the reader plot through characterisation even if this is not your cup of tea it's a great read for anyone considering authoring their own title as this is where true books began.

Sarah

A fine book that evoked many emotions

Reviewed in the United Kingdom 🇬🇧 on April 21, 2013

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I wasn't sure whether I would enjoy this book at first, being more used to modern literature. However, the language was descriptive but readable and I very quickly became engrossed in the story. Jane is a very bold character with such integrity and the way she deals with the struggles of her early life is truly admirable, which makes the reader really root for her. The relationship between Jane and mr rochester had such brooding intensity yet a subtlety that most modern love stories lack. I won't give anything away, but the twists and turns of the plot were compelling so much that I couldn't put the book down. I would thoroughly recommend this book to anyone.

K. Letheren

A classic

Reviewed in the United Kingdom 🇬🇧 on June 24, 2022

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Got this for my son to read as part of his gcse exams. This books delivers on so many levels in terms of language and literature. A real learning experience

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Jane Eyre (Penguin Classics) Paperback – August 15, 2006

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