I started reading Jane Eyre for the first time the other day. It’s been in my to-read pile for a couple of years at least, but you know how it is: there’s always something else; something more cutting-edge, more up-to-the minute.
People, the fucking preface alone is one of the finest pieces of writing in the English language: jam-packed with wisdom for our time and all times. George Bush should be made to read it.
Charlotte Bronte’s sister’s masterpiece, Wuthering Heights is the only book that’s ever made me miss my stop on the train on the way to work. Proof, perhaps, that genius can run in families; or that a similar environment can produce similar results.
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