The other day I ran across a Flavorwire piece on 12 Genuinely Great Books About May-December Romances . For the record, my own list shares just one book with the Flavorwire list ( Jane Eyre, naturally). But I confess, I dissolved into giggles at their Middlemarch commentary: "Do not go into the Casaubon house, Dorothea!" Amen to that, my friend. And might I add, "Why, Jo? WHY?" Scarred as a youth by the whole Jo & Laurie tragedy, May-December romances just did not work for me for a very long time. Truthfully, I think the first one that did was Jane and Rochester. In that instance, the depiction of kindred spirits finding one another across the barriers of age, station, and experience made a little home in my soul. And so I became a choosy partaker of such relationships, rather than an outright avoider. But it's still been rather hit and miss since. My inability to buy into them likely stems from a few of the usual suspects, something to do with the uneven na