our aspirations are wrapped up in books
book blog by a teenage girl who does not just read "books written for girls" although obviously she does sometimes.
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jane eyre. i don’t think the bronte sisters and i are going to get on. this is a book that’s so obsessed with hell and nostalgic rhetoric that so far it just seems lifeless, for all of jane eyre’s assertiveness towards the end of her stay with her aunt she never seems like a real child, just a small adult who is swamped by the long fussy words used by her older self. i don’t like it so far at all.
