Nearly 200 years since Charlotte Brontë published Jane Eyre, her unconventional orphan Jane – with her intense emotions and sense of injustice – continues to captivate and intrigue readers. [...]
As an autistic woman*, I have long felt a particular affinity to the character of Jane Eyre. Like Jane, I have been perceived as unconventional and abnormal. I, too, experienced a childhood of unintentional error, in which “I dared commit no fault: I strove to fulfil every duty”.
But despite my efforts, I frequently found myself getting into trouble. I would speak directly and honestly, causing offence without intention. I would ask clarifying questions which were perceived as personal attacks. I, too, was perceived as “naughty and tiresome”. I often felt I was “not like other girls”.
As an adult, writing my master’s thesis on Jane Eyre, I was haunted by my undiagnosed autism. It threatened to escape at any moment – much like Bertha, Rochester’s mad wife imprisoned in the attic. A family secret. Through a lifetime of learning to mask – to conceal my “externally noticeable” autistic traits – I built a kind of attic within myself. Inside it, my autism, like Bertha, fought against its incarceration, threatening to reveal itself.
After I received my diagnoses of autism and ADHD in 2022, I began to see Brontë’s novel in a different light. Then, I discovered that reading Jane Eyre as autistic is not new.
In 2008, literary studies scholar Julia Miele Rodas first showed how Jane Eyre can be interpreted as autistic. Specialising in disability studies and Victorian fiction, Rodas later wrote that Charlotte Brontë’s narrative voice “resonates with autism”.
Charlotte Brontë’s biographer Claire Harman has suggested various members of the Brontë family, including Charlotte’s sister Emily (author of Wuthering Heights) and their father Patrick, might have been autistic.
In addition to autism, other forms of “neurodivergence” have been explored in the novel, from ADHD to complex trauma, mental illness and disability. (Although “neurodivergence” is commonly associated with autism and ADHD, the term’s true meaning is much broader.) Feminist disability studies scholar Elizabeth Donaldson pioneered interpreting Bertha’s madness as a form of mental illness and disability. Drawing from Rodas, disability and literary studies scholar Jill Marie Treftz interprets Jane’s childhood friend Helen Burns as having ADHD.
Opening up new ways of reading the text, the autistic Jane Eyre also transforms older interpretations, particularly of madness and gender. Most famously, Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar’s essay A Dialogue of Self and Soul: Plain Jane’s Progress (published in their collection of feminist literary criticism, The Madwoman in the Attic).
Gilbert and Gubar interpret Jane Eyre as the story of a woman who learns “to govern her anger” to survive Victorian patriarchal standards of femininity. In the process, Jane is “haunted” by her own repressed “hunger, rebellion, and rage”, represented through the literal haunting of Bertha, the “madwoman in the attic”.
This reading is transformed when Jane herself is interpreted as another kind of neurodivergent: autistic. Read this way, her story becomes more than that of a woman who learns to “govern” and eventually “kill” her unfeminine anger. It becomes the story of an autistic woman, learning to mask and stifle her autism to survive patriarchy’s ableist standards of womanhood. These standards are at odds with autism’s very nature.
(Chloe Riley) (Read more)
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