Life is Too Short to Read "Jane Eyre"

I've tried, believe me I've tried. I swore just a few days ago that I would conquer this mountain and read Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre, considered by critics to be one of the best if not THE best novels starring "one of the most unforgettable heroines of all time," according to the blurb on the back. Determined, I went to my bookshelf straightaway and pulled down the yellowing Signet Classic, so old that it originally cost only $4.99 ($5.99 in Canada).

The first night I got almost all the way through page 1 before the book slipped from my hand and I floated off to sleep. I chalked it up to being overtired from having spent the day painting my living room. The next night I re-read page 1 and turned the page and read the first few lines of page 2 before my mind went numb.  I learned that young Jane was told to be quiet by some older lady who may have been her nanny, I'm not sure. So she went and got a book and next thing you know I'm reading Bewick's History of British Birds, and it was even more boring than the book about Jane.

Forget it--I don't have that kind of time. Thus far in my life I have read Ethan Frome about a million times, Bonfire of the Vanities at least three times, White Noise about half a dozen times, An American Tragedy twice--it's quite long--and each time was like the first time. If any day could be my last and if reading is optional--as opposed to chemo treatments and mammograms and the flu and doing taxes and paying bills and scooping cat litter-- I'm damn sure going to have fun doing it. Sorry, Charlotte.