I am sorry that I haven't enjoyed it more. I saw and felt why this book is so much loved and admired. I appreciate what Charlotte Bronte wanted to tell about 
 freedom (especially for women) 
 love (different kinds) 
 how people can differ from each other 
 how short some people make the road to a point which, for others, seems unattainable 
 comparison between Protestantism and Catholicism 
 and many other things (Continent-vs-Britain, acting-vs-learning, submission-vs-control, gender-vs-identity, isolation-vs-outreach, hot/cold, surface/depth, public/private, disguise/candor and profound versus superficial - from J.'s review). 
 What contradictory attributes of character we sometimes find ascribed to us, according to the eye with which we are viewed! 
 men, and women too, must have delusion of some sort; if not made ready to their hand, they will invent exaggeration for themselves 
 Many times I was really enjoying reading. But many times (I am afraid many many times) I was tired. I think that the narration in this book wasn't for me. Perhaps it was a bad time for reading this novel. I don't know. I really felt sorry for Charlotte Bronte, I felt her sorrow between lines. Perhaps it was too much sorrow for me to appreciate this book as much as it deserves. I have read many reviews, most of them praise the book. But I agree the most with J.'s review: 
 It would appear that this novel was what Bronte wanted to be her 'White Album', a kaleidoscopic goose chase, falling apart at every seam but straggling back together, demanding attention in a kind of ragged glory. A hard-won vision. There are quibbles and failings, but they don't really obscure that Bronte was after a broad and uncontrollable mastery of wildly disparate themes in Villette, and at that she succeeds. But she loses the center, and the reader, I'm afraid, somewhere along the way. 
 So, I don't regret that I have read it but I am a little disappointed that I had to fight sometimes with myself to finish it.