Inizierò questa recensione dicendo che Villette è stata una sfida: suppongo che, se non avessi partecipato al GdL di LiberTiAmo, non l’avrei mai letto, visto che non è il tipo di romanzo che solitamente rientra nel mio raggio di interesse.

In effetti, soprattutto nell’ultima parte, il mio interesse è drasticamente calato in zona “muoviti a finirlo o finirai per russarci sopra”, perché io tutte quelle menate amorose e tutti quei patemi che partono in quarta prima ancora di leggere la prima riga di una lettera proprio non li reggo. Quindi, ecco, non credo di essere in grado di dare un giudizio onesto su quella parte, visto che l’unico pensiero che ha partorito il mio cervello è stato: noia, noia, noia.

Quello che ho maggiormente apprezzato di Villette è stata la capacità dell’autrice di tratteggiare i personaggi tramite la protagonista, Lucy Snowe: infatti, la parte che ho apprezzato di più del romanzo è stata proprio la prima, dove Charlotte Brontë usa questa abilità con prodigalità.

A proposito della protagonista, devo dire che Lucy Snowe mi ha messo a dura prova e un po’ mi ha anche fatto vergognare. Lucy, infatti, sembra sempre troppo controllata, fredda e timorosa di farsi coinvolgere in qualunque tipo di relazione, anche di sola amicizia: è davvero difficile in alcuni momenti essere solidali con lei. Poi, però, penso che stiamo parlando di una donna sola, nell’Ottocento, e mi sento una merda alla sola idea di averla giudicata così male e provo una certa insofferenza nei confronti dell’autrice che non ci ha mostrato perché Lucy si sia ritrovata tanto a mal partito, ma ha preferito rintronarci con pagine e pagine di amoreggiamenti.

Anzi, è probabile che Lucy sia una delle eroine più forti della quale abbia letto: non affronta indicibili pene d’amore o chissà quali ostacoli che la separano dal suo innamorato. No, Lucy Snowe affronta a testa alta e schiena dritta tre delle paure che più ce la fanno fare sotto: quella della solitudine, della morte e dell’assenza di ogni speranza nel futuro. Non è affatto una fanciulla tremebonda e, anche se sa che molti non approverebbero il suo comportamento o ne riderebbero, a lei non interessa: quelle sono le sue scelte ed è decisamente intenzionata a difenderle e a tenersele ben strette, qualunque cosa dicano i saputelli di turno. Me inclusa. ( )

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Inizierò questa recensione dicendo che Villette è stata una sfida: suppongo che, se non avessi partecipato al GdL di LiberTiAmo, non l’avrei mai letto, visto che non è il tipo di romanzo che solitamente rientra nel mio raggio di interesse.

In effetti, soprattutto nell’ultima parte, il mio interesse è drasticamente calato in zona “muoviti a finirlo o finirai per russarci sopra”, perché io tutte quelle menate amorose e tutti quei patemi che partono in quarta prima ancora di leggere la prima riga di una lettera proprio non li reggo. Quindi, ecco, non credo di essere in grado di dare un giudizio onesto su quella parte, visto che l’unico pensiero che ha partorito il mio cervello è stato: noia, noia, noia.

Quello che ho maggiormente apprezzato di Villette è stata la capacità dell’autrice di tratteggiare i personaggi tramite la protagonista, Lucy Snowe: infatti, la parte che ho apprezzato di più del romanzo è stata proprio la prima, dove Charlotte Brontë usa questa abilità con prodigalità.

A proposito della protagonista, devo dire che Lucy Snowe mi ha messo a dura prova e un po’ mi ha anche fatto vergognare. Lucy, infatti, sembra sempre troppo controllata, fredda e timorosa di farsi coinvolgere in qualunque tipo di relazione, anche di sola amicizia: è davvero difficile in alcuni momenti essere solidali con lei. Poi, però, penso che stiamo parlando di una donna sola, nell’Ottocento, e mi sento una merda alla sola idea di averla giudicata così male e provo una certa insofferenza nei confronti dell’autrice che non ci ha mostrato perché Lucy si sia ritrovata tanto a mal partito, ma ha preferito rintronarci con pagine e pagine di amoreggiamenti.

Anzi, è probabile che Lucy sia una delle eroine più forti della quale abbia letto: non affronta indicibili pene d’amore o chissà quali ostacoli che la separano dal suo innamorato. No, Lucy Snowe affronta a testa alta e schiena dritta tre delle paure che più ce la fanno fare sotto: quella della solitudine, della morte e dell’assenza di ogni speranza nel futuro. Non è affatto una fanciulla tremebonda e, anche se sa che molti non approverebbero il suo comportamento o ne riderebbero, a lei non interessa: quelle sono le sue scelte ed è decisamente intenzionata a difenderle e a tenersele ben strette, qualunque cosa dicano i saputelli di turno. Me inclusa. ( )

My love for Jane Eyre isn't enough to keep me reading this book. It draaags, and there's a big detail that Lucy keeps to herself that has given me pause. If this isn't an oversight by Brontë, Lucy is either very careless in her recounting (which doesn't feel like the case) or she really doesn't like the reader. But then, she seems not to like a lot of people, so why should the reader be any different? Still, not enjoyable, so I'm calling it quits.

Upon re-reading this, I grew even more attached to Lucy Snowe than before--and this in spite of the fact that she holds you off with an insistence on her nothingness for a full third of the book.
Villette is probably a polarizing read: I can see that some people don't like it. It is not a neat package. It's a book that plays tricks on you. And each of the two men Lucy falls in love with subvert expectations so much that some readers will be disappointed. So don't read this for the plot--don't read it for a love story--don't read it for your favorite tropes. If you're going to read it, read it for the puzzle box character of Lucy Snowe, the girl who seems to have no feelings. Read it patiently, even though you may not like her or understand her at first. She doesn't think she has a lot to say, but she does. And if you know something about Charlotte Bronte's life and loves, so much the better.

Perhaps my Kindle highlights demonstrate at least a little of how powerful a read it is.

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Original review follows:

I went through many different feelings about this story and its central character, and even yet, I can't fix on just one impression. Lucy Snowe repelled me at first; she relates what she observes about others, and in a slightly judgmental manner, but gives no hint about herself. She is not exactly alone in the world, but the people in her life are not her friends. This isn't totally their fault: she seems unknowable.
When she needs to become self-sufficient, she alights at a girls' school to be nursemaid and later teacher. She's scarcely less thorny there. But there's an occasional thaw, a growing vividness within her. And to describe any more of the plot would be to rob the reader of the journey.

As a narrator I found Lucy Snowe to be very difficult to pin down. She's not reliable. You come to realize that she's holding back items from you that she could have shared sooner. Her estimation of the people around her is also pretty suspect, from my point of view. Do I really believe that one man is shallow, while the other is a diamond in the rough? Those Brontes and their Byronic men! Intense, broody, and moody. But always somehow irresistible.

I don't know if I'll reread this...Lucy suffers from major melancholy and fatalism, and, oh that ending--good grief, why? :|
But, anyway, the book is totally atmospheric with that touch of Gothic shiver which one expects from a Bronte, and the fact that it can make you revise your opinion about Lucy and the other characters in each volume...now that's good writing. I unwillingly loved Lucy by the end. ( )

To quote Stephen Fry in one of my favorite Fry and Laurie sketches, that ending was ”balls" .

Lucy Snowe, the narrator and main character of Villette, would not be, in another author's hands, the main character. Polly and Graham would be the leads, and Lucy would be a supporting character, more as an advocate for the young lovers, an object of curiosity or pity, I imagine. Jane Austen probably would have given her a happy ending, perhaps dedicating a humorous paragraph or two to her marriage to M. Paul, comparing it to an ongoing battle or using a better metaphor than I can come up with, since I am not Jane Austen . Elizabeth Gaskell probably would have killed her off after she interceded for Polly and Graham. Come to think of it, killing off M. Paul on his way home to Lucy was sort of E. Gaskell's style too. In Charlotte Bronte's hands, Lucy is the main character, and the reader is in her head a lot, because Lucy is in her head a lot. It's an interesting place to be, Lucy's head, because there are many eloquently stated insights in there. I switched to a kindle version of the book once I started noticing all the phrases I wanted to save, so that I could highlight without any actual books being harmed. Lucy's head is also a rough place to inhabit. She's had a pretty sad life, and while vague on many of the details of her past, she's explicit when describing her struggles with depression. These parts weren't exactly fun to read, but they were still filled with insight. One that really stood out to me was when she was confronted with a bit of what I've always assumed was modern pop psychology—a friend (and love interest) advised her to "cultivate" happiness. Her commentary to the reader:

No mockery in the world ever sounds to me so hollow as that of being told to cultivate happiness.

Lucy Snowe is exceptional in the way she acts against social conventions—she doesn't keep her temper or her thoughts to herself when she thinks people are doing something wrong or being ridiculous. Even her love interest/crush is not exempt. There's a great scene where she mimics his effusiveness in describing the object of his affection (not Lucy), and I laughed out loud. It was like she was saying, "You're being a moron. Here's an example." I wonder if her behavior is a portrayal of the freedom from English societal expectations she would have, living and making her own way in France. Freedom and adoption of some of the culture of her new home maybe. I'm not sure about that, but it was a point that was interesting to ponder.

If I have one complaint, it's that there's a lot of untranslated French in here. With a little extra effort, I probably could have gotten my hands on a copy that had translation notes (I'm assuming one exists), but I did not make that extra effort and do not have WiFi at home so could not easily search translations every time I was confronted with a spot of French. So I was stuck trying to use what I know of Spanish to try to pull meaning out of similar-looking words. That and the context of the conversations in French usually gave me an idea of what was going on, but I know I missed nuances.

Despite my first sentence about the ending, I thought this was a fantastic book. Charlotte Bronte had such a way with words. And after all, in the end, she did give the reader permission to interpret things to suit his or her nature, and I think that's what I'm going to do. I have to admit, unless a sad ending is the only way the story works, I'm all for a happy ending. I love happy endings, and I think Lucy bloody well deserved one. So I'm going to try to forget that sentence about how the 3 years waiting for M. Paul to return were the happiest of her life, and I'm going to imagine a Hollywood-style reunion with a kiss to rival the most memorable of on-screen kisses. A kiss like the BBC gave us in North and South, which was so much better than what we got at the end of that book. Sorry Liz Gaskell, but it's true. I had earned smoochies by that point and got none. Anyway, yes. That's what I'll do. Happy ending happy ending happy ending. See? It's working. It is too! ( )