A review by chrissie_whitley
Jane Steele by Lyndsay Faye

4.0

I hope that the epitaph of the human race when the world ends will be: Here perished a species which lived to tell stories.

Jane Steele was just fun. Flat out fun. Well-written and exciting fun. This book and I had a great time. I admit to never having read [b:Jane Eyre|10210|Jane Eyre|Charlotte Brontë|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1327867269s/10210.jpg|2977639]. I own that decision. I am not a fan of gothic tales (of which that may arguably be the best) and I grew up watching a televised version of it at my best friend's house, so I know where the story goes, at least. So, it remains on my to-read list.

In Jane Steele, Faye has created a character (the titular one) with harmony of disposition and strength and action and wherewithal. The tone of the book felt a lot like [b:Vanity Fair|5797|Vanity Fair|William Makepeace Thackeray|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1344386439s/5797.jpg|1057468]'s Becky, or the backstory for the reincarnated character, Lady Melinda Winifred Waine Tentrees, a seductive 18th century coquette who was born the illegitimate daughter of a kitchen maid in Minnelli's 1970 film, On a Clear Day You Can See Forever. It was a lovely balance of being both playful and flirty, and straightforward and sensible. I look forward to reading other works by Faye.
We tell stories to strangers to ingratiate ourselves, stories to lovers to better adhere us skin to skin, stories in our heads to banish the demons. When we tell the truth, often we are callous; when we tell lies, often we are kind. Through it all we tell stories, and we own an uncanny knack for the task.