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Jane Eyre (English Edition) par [Brontë, Charlotte]
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Jane Eyre (English Edition) Format Kindle

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Longueur : 296 pages Word Wise: Activé Composition améliorée: Activé
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Jane Eyre
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Extrait

Chapter One


There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further outdoor exercise was now out of the question.

I was glad of it; I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed.

The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mamma in the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying) looked perfectly happy. 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."

"What does Bessie say I have done?" I asked.

"Jane, I don't like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent."

A small breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there. 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: gathering up my feet, I sat crosslegged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double retirement.

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: the letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and yet there were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not pass quite as a blank. 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." Of these death-white realms I formed an idea of my own: shadowy, like all the half-comprehended notions that float dim through children's brains, but strangely impressive. 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: it was an object of terror.

So was the black, horned thing seated aloof on a rock, surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows.

Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting: as interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings, when she chanced to be in good humour; and when, having brought her ironing-table to the nursery-hearth, she allowed us to sit about it, and while she got up Mrs. 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: happy at least in my way. I feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The breakfast-room door was opened.

"Boh! Madam Mope!" cried the voice of John Reed; then he paused: he found the room apparently empty.

"Where the dickens is she?" he continued. "Lizzy! Georgy! (calling to his sisters) Jane is not here: tell mamma she is run out into the rain--bad animal!"

"It is well I drew the curtain," thought I, and I wished fervently he might not discover my hiding-place: nor would John Reed have found it out himself; he was not quick either of vision or conception; but Eliza just put her head in at the door, and said at once: "She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack."

And I came out immediately, for I trembled at the idea of being dragged forth by the said Jack.

"What do you want?" I asked with awkward diffidence.

"Say, 'what do you want, Master Reed,' " was the answer. "I want you to come here"; and seating himself in an arm-chair, he intimated by a gesture that I was to approach and stand before him.

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." Mr. 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: every nerve I had feared him, and every morsel of flesh on my bones shrank when he came near. 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: she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me, though he did both now and then in her very presence; more frequently, however, behind her back.

Habitually obedient to John, I came up to his chair: he spent some three minutes in thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he could without damaging the roots: 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.

"That is for your impudence in answering mamma a while since," said he, "and for your sneaking way of getting behind curtains, and for the look you had in your eyes two minutes since, you rat!"

Accustomed to John Reed's abuse, I never had an idea of replying to it: my care was how to endure the blow which would certainly follow the insult.

"What were you doing behind the curtain?" he asked.

"I was reading."

"Show the book."

I returned to the window and fetched it thence.

"You have no business to take our books; you are a dependant, mamma says; you have no money; your father left you none; you ought to beg, and not to live here with gentlemen's children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and wear clothes at our mamma's expense. Now, I'll teach you to rummage my bookshelves: for they are mine; all the house belongs to me, or will do in a few years. Go and stand by the door, out of the way of the mirror and the windows."

I did so, not at first aware what was his intention; but when I saw him lift and poise the book and stand in act to hurl it, I instinctively started aside with a cry of alarm: not soon enough, however; the volume was flung, it hit me, and I fell, striking my head against the door and cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had passed its climax; other feelings succeeded.

"Wicked and cruel boy!" I said. "You are like a murderer--you are like a slave-driver--you are like the Roman emperors!"

I had read Goldsmith's History of Rome, and had formed my opinion of Nero, Caligula, &...

From AudioFile

What a joy to hear a favorite classic performed with excellence! Nadia May's skill as a storyteller has the listener soon believing Jane Eyre is speaking directly to him or her, "the gentle reader." The story of Jane, orphan governess, and her tragic love, Mr. Rochester, has the same plot as many of today's romances, but Bront''s masterful use of language and description moves it to a higher plane. Her portrayal of the social milieu of the times and Jane's view of realities and her yearnings to transcend them will give present-day women much to ponder. A timeless work flawlessly presented. T.R. An AUDIOFILE Earphones Award winner (c)AudioFile, Portland, Maine

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  • Format : Format Kindle
  • Taille du fichier : 1173 KB
  • Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 296 pages
  • Utilisation simultanée de l'appareil : Illimité
  • Vendu par : Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ASIN: B0082RHRHC
  • Synthèse vocale : Activée
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  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 5.0 étoiles sur 5 2 commentaires client
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Par Pepperpot TOP 1000 COMMENTATEURS le 27 août 2014
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
je viens de terminer la version française, j'ai adoré. Je viens donc de télécharger la version anglaise pour le plaisir de lire cette langue que j'affectionne tout particulièrement.
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Par chad le 27 janvier 2015
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
I love the character of Jane Eyre who, despite her unhappy childhood, comes through all adversity... eventually.

An absolute must...
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2 internautes sur 2 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Good :) 11 octobre 2015
Par anna lisa - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
Jane is an orphan that grows up in her aunts house even though her aunt wishes nothing more than to be rid of her and the feeling is mutual.
After finally standing up to her aunt Jane soon gets the opportunity to break free from her aunt's house and grabs it with new hope towards life.
We get to follow her through her life until she ends up as a governess in a rich man‘s house. Jane soon starts to care about the few inhabitants of the house, especially the master even though she is hesitant to admit it to her self.
But in Janes life love, pain and death are never far away. She had hoped that the worst was behind her but she starts to realise that she might have been wrong as she learns her master's secrets and has to face one hard decision after another.

I liked this book, I have not read many classic novels but I will be reading more of them now.
I liked how Jane always kept going no matter what she had to face and that she always stayed true to her self.
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Not quite the masterpiece it's made out to be 11 juillet 2014
Par Dan Harlow - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
My favorite part of the novel was the time Jane spent with the Rivers'. Though I didn't know that these people would ultimately turn out to be her relations, there was an easy, comfortable homeyness to their relationships. I also enjoyed how St. John was, aside from marriage, able to get the better of Jane. I say this not so much that I felt Jane needed any due, but rather because she, as written, had no real faults. This lack of fault in Jane, aside from a stubborn streak, is in part what keeps the novel as a whole from being a true masterpiece; the other nibbling quibble I have is Charlotte's inability to fully describe a setting better than a rough sketch.

I could better forgive the later (the sketchiness of the descriptions) had Jane been someone who was not so astute, so observant, and also so taken by passion. I could also better understand it had Jane not been an artist. Yet this inability of the author to really let us see (see better than Mr. Rochester in the finale) coupled with the fact that Jane isn't an unreliable narrator - people who are mean to her are not because of any oversight of her's, they just ARE bad people - all this weighs the novel down and keeps it from rising to what I was expecting to be a much more brilliant novel.

Jane's lack of faults and an overall lack of any sense of humor in the story (I can't have more than passingly chuckled only a handful of times, and then it probably wasn't even intentional) makes the novel a bit dull. Not even the unending pun of Jane (as in one who is plain) and Eyre (as in air, ire, heir) could get a rise from me.

Yet when the story is really going, when Jane is as passionate as the terrible weather that soaks every page with rain and snow and storm, when things are hot, the novel is really good and it's hard to not get caught up in it. I did believe she loved Mr. Rochester and I believed he loved her.

But what I loved was the complicated relationship between her and St. John. I liked him even better than strange, ugly Mr. Rochester because he was flawed in a way that real people are flawed. He was sort of unbearable, intolerable, proud, and haughty. Add in that he thought himself blameless, that he believed his name was already written in God's book, made him interesting - more interesting than Jane or her cousins.

In fact, Olivia, who loved St. John but whom he denied, as nice but dim as she was, served as sort of a metaphor for what a person the author didn't believe people should be yet made Jane, in many ways, just as dim and dull.

As for the tendency towards melodrama in the novel, I kept wondering if Charlotte was writing a novel she was hoping to see herself in or was speaking to some greater truth of the human condition that 150 odd years since its writing no longer is able to get across well. There are moments, especially the fire at the end that are so over the top that the novel felt indulgent, however, it was such a good scene that it was entertaining. I wonder if Charlotte was just trying to spice things up a bit after pages and pages of interesting, but rather long-winded dialog.

I do understand that the novel has political and social consequences that in their historical context are quite important, and as a feminist tract this novel is very important in the western tradition. However, with fresh, modern eyes, I never felt that Jane was doing anything worthy of even a mild blush. No consideration was made for what other people in the novel felt about Jane's situation so to learn that the novel was met with social resistance is purely a matter of the times the novel was written, an interesting societal footnote, but not at all indicative of the text on a larger scheme. There seems to be little intention on Charlotte's behalf to 'shock' readers otherwise she would have put Jane's travails in a larger, more controversial frame.

To better explain, it's like talking about very early season episodes of The Simpsons: they were controversial at the time but there is nothing controversial in them, they just caused an uproar because they showed a rougher side to family humor. It was much ado about nothing.

And so I feel too is Jane Eyre: much ado about nothing.

Yet I did really enjoy the novel too. The endless dialog was, unlike Dostoevsky, never dull, seemed natural, and never dragged even when it was far from brief. Characters seemed most 'in their element' when conversing and when the story demanded action that Charlotte didn't take into melodramatic waters, the situations were very interesting, such as the death of Mrs. Sarah Reed (another great character). Here the novel shines and though there may not be anything earth-shattering in its observations, that's not what the book was going for. Charlotte wanted to draw us in, make us live with these people, make us feel that love she felt, and in that regard I was quite convinced.
1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Remarkable 27 avril 2017
Par AmandaQ82 - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
It took me a long time to read this novel because I am a slow reader (and life got in the way), however, I thoroughly enjoyed it. The descriptiveness of each scene drew me in as if I were truly there. This was just one of the books I've had on my shelf for many years. Jane Eyre is a remarkable story of a woman's life from childhood to adulthood and the awesomeness of true love.
3.0 étoiles sur 5 BAD Kindle Format 7 mars 2017
Par Katie - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
I am not going to review the book, it's Jane Eyre, if you need to find a review there are plenty since 1847.

This is about the kindle format. It's just bad. Some may even say horrible, but I live on the student budget so I am a bit on the beggers can't be choosers side. I didn't find it the worst format but the biggest annoyance I had was repeated sentences and even pages at times. Then my small nitpick that the following chapter just rests under the line of its predecessor. Why is that a thing? Are you trying to save the trees, its digital why not start the next chapter on the following page, it just looks cleaner.

But wise word works and it can identify each chapter in the books, so in that regard, I didn't find it the worst format just in need of edits for the repeats. Also, heads up, keep iphone handy if you don't know french.
4.0 étoiles sur 5 I will start by saying that a reader must enjoy novels written during this time period (not just about ... 6 mai 2016
Par Amazon Customer - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
I will start by saying that a reader must enjoy novels written during this time period (not just about this time period) in oder to enjoy this novel. Although I do enjoy them, even I had trouble getting through some parts. This book is not a happy story. All of the characters are strained and unhappy in some way. Some more than others. All of the happiness is hard won. As is common with this style of writing, there is a lot of time spent on describing sunsets, flowers, trees,etc. It can also be very frustrating because the men are controlling and arrogant. I would advise anyone considering this book to first read a description of Bronte's life to help you understand why she admired these men. Especially St. John. I think it will help. Don't expect the happiest of endings.
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