Silly things that I feel vaguely guilty about, Part III

I'm writing a paper for my Victorians class on Jenna Starborn, a frighteningly awful sci-fi adaptation of Jane Eyre, and how the author unhumanizes Berthe. Whose name is Beatrice. Officially I'm glad that Sharon Shinn, the author, went with changing all the names, but she did it in a kind of lame way, and –

Well, that's neither here nor there. I feel guilty because I refuse to read Wide Sargasso Sea. I know it's no big deal, and I can read what I want, but still whenever I think about Wide Sargasso Sea I want to write a note to Jean Rhys who doesn't give a shit, to let her know that I'm sure her book is splendid and I hope she doesn't take it personally that I refuse to read it. I wouldn't feel guilty if I just didn't happen to ever get around to reading Wide Sargasso Sea, but because I know it's there and I'm actively not reading it out of selfish motives, I feel guilty. Basically I don't want to read it because I don't want anyone to spoil Jane Eyre for me. This is very not postcolonialist of me. I feel like a bad feminist. Not because I in any way admit any possible flaw in Jane Eyre, because I for sure do not, ever, nothing, nope, not a bit, perfect book that I love forever; but because I am actually refusing to read a book that might damage my deep and abiding love for Mr. Rochester by giving me the other woman's perspective. It's the booky equivalent of putting my fingers in my ears and going Lalalalalalalalalala.

(I now have the Flash Girls song stuck in my head.)

To countermand this guilt, I am going to read The Madwoman in the Attic, which will in no way damage my deep love for Mr. Rochester on account of its being all academic and not fictiony and it can't make me ever think about Berthe as – what's the Sargasso Sea heroine called? Antoinette? Anyway, I think this will kill the guilt. Maybe.