Yes, I named my cat Charlotte Brontë. My introduction to the four-month-old kitten my veterinarian cousin rescued on my behalf three summers ago was this very cell phone photo. She’s bigger now and still gorgeous. And she’s napping on the chair across the room, occasionally glancing over at me through slitted eyelids, as if she knows I’m writing about her. Because, really. Why wouldn’t I be?
Then there’s her namesake, the woman whose books I chose to study for my senior thesis in college.
Jane Eyre was the first “classic” I read without having it assigned to me in school. I think I was 12 or 13 years old when I discovered it. I discovered the BBC movie version, starring Timothy Dalton, about a decade later, and that sealed it as my favorite romance novel of all time.
I enjoy Jane Austen’s novels, and I do love the movie version of Pride and Prejudice starring Colin Firth as much as the next woman. But perverse as it may be, I’ll take Mr. Rochester over Mr. Darcy any day.
Hm. I wonder what that says about me?