While I found this novel fascinating, its reticent first person narrator, Lucy Snowe, way before her time, the (hidden? unavowed?) theme of female desire tantalizingly alluded to, the sea voyage motif and vague critique of capitalism and working opportunities for lower Middle Class women also intellectually stimulating and abstractly engrossing, I never once found the narrative engaging my heart of feelings in the slightest. This is rather remarkable, for, as I read, I found myself both propelled forward with abstract interest and yet indifferent, bored, even pained to be reading on. The small events here--the most demure and subtle two romances in the history of literature perhaps, were just not in any way emotionally engaging. The characters are very well depicted and yet wholly unremarkable. So, while the novel is very well written and its choices--the reticent narrator who leaves off telling us of momentous things in order to tell us about (or even tease us subtly with allusions to) mundane and unavowable things for nearly 600 pages is a test of one's emotional patience. Villette's most interesting aspect, to me, is what it manages (for 600 pages!) not to say--that women have sexual desire and dare not say so or ever act as if they do. That, as a means of constructing a narrative, is both brilliant and utterly mad--fascinating and dry as dust at the same time.

It was a little better in the last volume--for reasons I will pass over so as not to give spoilers. Perhaps my failing as a reader lies in my maleness (lack of identification with Lucy--although she does all she can not to garner our empathy, as Mrs. Gaskell noted) and the time gap between Ms. Bronte and myself. Still, beyond one particularly well written set piece scene, I found Villette to be the weakest of all of the three sisters' novels.