I think I mentioned previously that I started reading Jane Eyre again. This is by far my very most favorite book out of all the books in all the land. Every time I read it I get completely caught up in Jane’s story. It’s like, I feel vaguely aware of the fact that I’m standing directly underneath someone’s sweaty armpit on the subway and that someone else’s umbrella is poking me in the ribs, but really I’m standing in the garden as Edward gets Jane to admit she’s in love and I’m crying and my heart is beating faster and shit – are we really at World Trade Center already? FONGUL. Not again.
A couple years ago when I came down with that horrible case of tonsillitis and felt certain I was seeing the heavenly light, after Billy came over and I wiped my tears and snot on his t-shirt, and then he inevitably went home, Jane Eyre nursed me back to health. It was her story that gave me hope and the strength to get well. Even then, I could get so caught up in the LOVE that I didn’t notice that the inside of my throat had swollen to the size of a grapefruit, leaving it impossible for me to breathe except through my right ear. I could survive that, because Jane. And Edward. And all the love! The love! Swoon.
So yeah. I think that if I lived on a deserted island and had nothing but Jane Eyre to read over and over and over again, I would be quite content indeed. Until then, I guess my couch will just have to do.