用英语写一篇外国文学作品赏析，800字左右

最好LZ 要自己花点心思，哪怕参考现成的文章但是加上自己的理解也成，最起码要挑本自己喜欢的书？

我很喜欢简爱，所以下面这篇简爱的赏析供LZ参考。不是我写的，是外国人写的。
这书真好^_^

Jane Eyre is the rare book that manages to be good by virtue of ineffable charm alone, despite not having very much going for it in terms of overall plot.
There is something more going on in Jane Eyre than mere charm, true, something authentically powerful--if, as will be see, brief. But the power of Jane Eyre has less to do with the conflict of great forces that typifies great works of literature, and more to do with the subtle irritation of a delayed resolution to its most important episode. Instead of a race between values through the people who represent those values, Jane Eyre tasks us with a race to turn its pages and find out its secrets--still a race, but a race whose victory, barring the boredom of the reader, is assured.

The word episode above is a clue to the larger problem. Jane Eyre is a novel built on episodes, loosely tied together by their common, likable and eponymous protagonist. Jane Eyre is an orphan in the care of her brutal relatives, who despise her due to her outspoken character combined with her low social station. They eventually foist her off on the grim boarding school of Lowood.

As a narrator, Jane is ideal: objective enough to provide us with a good account of events, outspoken enough to bump the plot along whenever it needs bumping, and virtuous enough never to frustrate our expectations. Often enough, our viewpoint is hers; only we're not quite so witty and we're without quite so apt an eye for injustice--again making Jane, in page-after-page of her revelations, a delight to read. The novel's rhetoric is also inventive, accomplishing its routine narrative tasks via devices more elaborate than are probably necessary, yet with something fresh about each.

Jane's attempt to chide herself into abandoning her interest in her brooding employer, Edward Rochester, takes the form of a contest between two mental pictures, and the inevitable attempt by Rochester to coax out Jane's feelings involves an elaborate and well-detailed ruse involving disguises and a gypsy fortuneteller. The book, and its narrator, both definitely have charm: we like Jane, we like what she says, and we want to see what she will say next.
What We Like About Jane Eyre

Where we like Jane the most is in the book's principal episode, which involves Jane working as a governess for a young charge of dark, Byronic Rochester amidst the mysteries of his dark, Byronic estate Thornfield--all revealed, of course, after many dark, Byronic outbursts of extreme sentiments that Charlotte Bronte probably enjoyed writing very much. And, Rochester is actually enjoyable: a match for Jane in terms of wit, impressive in his authority, and sympathetic in his vulnerability. He's likable enough, in fact, that once Jane begins to speculate on the possibility of becoming closer still to her employer, we realize that we like the idea of these two becoming a pair. Suddenly, the story floods with tension. We're no longer reading just because we happen to like Jane, but because we're invested in a likable outcome.
More: we're invested in a likable outcome that seems increasingly threatened by Rochester's secrets. Bronte hints at these with the facility of a mystery novelist: she knows the ideal times to drop a scream from the walls or a mysterious guest from the past into our laps. In her continued ability to strain, felicitously, at the bounds of rhetoric, she raises the novel to a level no mystery writer usually wants to attempt.

And the conclusion, when it finally hits, is worth the wait--not only raising the level of tension and rhetoric, but also the thematic level of the book as well. The Rochester episode is the story that everyone remembers from Jane Eyre, and the one part of the book that deserves to be called truly great.

But then there's the rest of the book, which isn't great; it's just there. Jane's school is infested with typhus, Jane meets her long-lost cousin, Jane is tempted to run off and become a missionary: really, how does this stack up to Thornfield? And why does it need to be there at all, other than filling in a necessary gap in time before Rochester can come storming back in on his black horse (figuratively, of course, considering certain events in the plot) and make the story interesting again?

It needs to be there, one might think, because the story isn't about Rochester and Jane; it's about Jane--which would be true. But, if the story is about Jane alone, relegating Rochester to a brief but important incident in Jane's life, then it's not a great story. With her her likable, narratorial qualities, Jane may be a great narrator, but she makes an extremely lousy dynamic character, even if she is involved in a typhus scare.

Jane is objective, outspoken, and virtuous throughout, which means she's not particularly susceptible to temptations (except those Rochester provides). That means that Rochester is crucial to the real, emotional conflict of the book--crucial to the power of the book. The rest is just Jane being Jane, which may be fun to read, but it doesn't intersect with any real threat, any real conflict of values that lends a great book its electric charge.

So what the novel has to its name is rhetorical brilliance, a good episode that doesn't take up nearly a large enough percentage of the page count, and a lot of needless distractions.
There are great books that are structurally unbalanced, even structurally deranged, Don Quixote being maybe the prime example, but even Don Quixote is unusually good about keeping its Quixote chapters strictly separate from its filler chapters, allowing the knight to remain his untarnished self throughout its plot, and throughout our memories.

Whereas Bronte, in taking as her narrative logic an episodic structure united by an ideal protagonist, gives her book a larger measure of consistency at the expense of diluting its overall strength. Thus Jane Eyre remains a beautiful sandcastle while it's being experienced, but not one of which much (save its brief heart) remains after the tides of time and memory crash down over its Thornfieldean parapets.