DEVOTED TO THE WORST FUCKING BOOK IN EXISTENCE
Any poor, unfortunate soul that's even been forced to
read this trite, boring, drawn-out piece of donkey excretement that is laughably
called a novel should have no questions as to why this page exists.
"Jane Eyre", a "Gothic" novel that is about as gothic as a
cheerleader fucking her quarterback boyfriend while listening to Britney Spears,
almost single-handedly made me never want to read a fucking book again.
It is THAT bad.
When I was a sophomore in High School, I was a happy, good-looking young man. I liked sunsets and flowers. All was perfect in my life. Then in my English class, I was subjected to a Charlotte Bronte-scripted enema. Being anally raped by all of the Overfiend's 100-foot-long phalli couldn't have had more of an effect on me than this. When I finally read that last page, my hair had fallen out, I had taken to wearing all black and a mask to hide the disfigurement from trying to claw my own eyes out, and lived in a sewer where I hunted rats for food while cacking, "Rochester, Rochester, Rochester, HEEHEEHEEHEE!!!"
If you're looking for a plot synopsis, here's what you do. Open you mouth, very wide. Close your eyes. And then try not gag on my cock. In other words, you have a better chance of titty-fucking Jennifer Love Hewitt than that happening. If you really, really wanna know, here's Book-A-Minute's ultra-condensed explanation. The entire worthless book in 10 lines. Keep in mind, of course, that the actual novel is about 600 pages long. So by the fifth time Rochester's insane first wife sets Jane's veil on fire and she angsts about whether or not to marry him, you're ready to dig up Bronte's corpse, re-animate it with voodoo, and then kill it again for writing such a god-awful sack of shit.
(NOTE: The Anarkist's Lair does not condone the exhuming of talentless, overblown Victorian authors, the usage of voodoo to bring them back to life, or the re-killing of said authors.)
Exactly what is it that makes this "book" so damned hateful? Is it the pacing, which skips between frozen molasses and then skipping years ahead for no apparent reason? Is it the fact that the author gives no reason whatsoever to symphathize with the characters, so we don't really care if the insane first wife sets Jane on fire, chops her up and serves her as cutlets? (Actually, that would make for a far more interesting novel than this tripe) Is it the fact that the sole reason this piece of shit is a "classic" is because it was written by a chick back when chicks didn't write? Is it, perhaps, because it nearly spoiled me on reading forever? It's all of the above, of course, and more. I severely question the intelligence of anyone who can read this thing without wanting to throw it out a window within the first 10 pages.
Reading "Jane Eyre" is a lot like being raped by a bull elephant's trunk. It's very painful, you bleed a lot, and you feel violated afterwards. I left a piece of my soul behind that Sophomore year, and I'll never be able to get it back.
Goddamn you, Jane Eyre.
