My rating: 3 of 5 stars
A remarkable book that is marked by the following:
1) conversations that switch between french and english, in the same paragraph. Not cool.
2) a heroine who tells her story by her interactions with others instead of being interesting herself.
3) an annoying hate/love relationship with a cruel, capricious little french man.
4) an ending that doesn’t tell what actually happened. Bronte was a real witch in this regards
So if you can put up with all that, and have a melancholic turn of mind, you’ll probably love this.
I read it back in ’01, when I was in a melancholic turn of mind and I loved it then.
Now I’m happy and I didn’t particularly like this. Go figure.