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Jane Eyre (Edição Bilíngue) (Portuguese Edition) eBook: Charlotte Bronte, Fabio Cyrino, Doris Goettems: efycymepodor.tk: Kindle Store.
Table of contents
- Books by Doris Goettems
- Books by Doris Goettems (Author of Jane Eyre)
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You could trace the threads of plot that would be developed in the later book and see her writing style when it was at an earlier point in her development. I just wish the translations of French passages were included in the book as footnotes.
Books by Doris Goettems
It's been many years since my high school French and though I could still follow some of the text I would have enjoyed it much more with complete translations. The story explores some themes we see in later novels and also shows us a Charlotte Bronte not quite as sophisticated as the later work. No one ever claimed this was on-par with Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights well, Charlotte apparently did say parts of it were right up there with Jane Eyre.
Unfortunately, I felt like a somnambulist trudging through this, her first novel, never engaged with what was going on. Of greatest interest were the descriptions of life in Belgium. There are some intriguing moments with the love-interest portion of the story. However, I found it hard to empathize with the protagonist, making it hard reading the deeper into the novel I got.
I'd stick with Charlotte's later work and the works of her sister and only read The Professor if you're trying to read them all.
Books by Doris Goettems (Author of Jane Eyre)
The story line in this book was good and interesting, but the author writes as though all her readers speak French. I have read other books where they make entries in the dialog in another language, however after doing that they explain what was just said in that language. In The Professor, there are paragraphs and paragraphs of French dialog with no explanation as to what was said.
In some instances she did explain some of the smaller sentences that were written in French which was completely acceptable reading. In one part of the book, there is almost a page and a half of French dialog, and since I don't speak or read French, I found it quite boring, and almost lost me as a reader. 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.
Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent. 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: 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: 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.
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: So was the black, horned thing seated aloof on a rock, surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows.
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Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting: 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: I feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The breakfast-room door was opened.
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. 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: 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: Habitually obedient to John, I came up to his chair: 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.
Now, I'll teach you to rummage my bookshelves: Primarily of the "Bildungsroman" genre, "Jane Eyre" follows the emotions and experiences of its eponymous heroine, including her growth to adulthood and her love for Mr. Rochester, the Byronic master of fictitious Thornfield Hall. In its internalisation of the action—the focus is on the gradual unfolding of Jane's moral and spiritual sensibility, and all the events are coloured by a heightened intensity that was previously the domain of poetry—"Jane Eyre" revolutionised the art of fiction.
The novel contains elements of social criticism, with a strong sense of morality at its core, but is nonetheless a novel many consider ahead of its time given the individualistic character of Jane and the novel's exploration of classism, sexuality, religion, and proto-feminism. Flowing text, Original pages. Web, Tablet, Phone, eReader.
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