I'm afraid I'd have taken Jane Austen over the insipid and sternly prim Miss Bronte any day of the week. I've always found Austen's works to have a wonderful undercurrent of gentle sarcasm, a criticism of her society that clearly her peers weren't too happy about. Northanger Abbey in particular made me laugh out loud more than once, as did Emma. Her characters have dimensions, whereas Jane Eyre's only real dimension is overt moralism and propriety, only "falling in love" with the completely inappropriate man because she was too damn stiff to have a proper grownup relationship with someone ordinary.
I think the term "passion" is badly defined by Madam Shortly Upherself Bronte et al as being only to do with the romantic. There are greater passions than an artificial and unattainable love, they just need not be so overt as to completely dominate the literature.
I think the term "passion" is badly defined by Madam Shortly Upherself Bronte et al as being only to do with the romantic. There are greater passions than an artificial and unattainable love, they just need not be so overt as to completely dominate the literature.
It could be worse