Brontë Bites

When we are harassed by sorrows or anxieties, or long oppressed by any powerful feelings which we must keep to ourselves, for which we can obtain and seek no sympathy from any living creature, and which, yet, we cannot or will not wholly crush, we often, naturally, seek relief in poetry—and often find it too…

“Allow me to guess why you all hate him so much. Throughout the Southern Dynasty, for years there have been countless gluttons fed, each one noble and elegant in appearance but actually insatiably greedy. Even when already fed fat as pigs, they still won’t stop their mouths that steal food from the people. They won’t spit out even a small bite. But he made you vomit up what you had swallowed, so you all fear him, hate him, yet can do nothing about him! Now that you finally have a chance to suppress him, even knowing it’s like making a deal with a tiger, you’re unwilling to miss it.”

We are naturally disposed to love what gives us pleasure, and what more pleasing than a beautiful face—when we know no harm of the possessor at least? A little girl loves her bird—Why? Because it lives and feels; because it is helpless and harmless? A toad, likewise, lives and feels, and is equally helpless and harmless; but though she would not hurt a toad, she cannot love it like the bird, with its graceful form, soft feathers, and bright, speaking eyes. If a woman is fair and amiable, she is praised for both qualities, but especially the former, by the bulk of mankind: if, on the other hand, she is disagreeable in person and character, her plainness is commonly inveighed against as her greatest crime, because, to common observers, it gives the greatest offence; while, if she is plain and good, provided she is a person of retired manners and secluded life, no one ever knows of her goodness, except her immediate connections. Others, on the contrary, are disposed to form unfavourable opinions of her mind, and disposition, if it be but to excuse themselves for their instinctive dislike of one so unfavoured by nature; and vice versâ with her whose angel form conceals a vicious heart, or sheds a false, deceitful charm over defects and foibles that would not be tolerated in another.

It is foolish to wish for beauty. Sensible people never either desire it for themselves or care about it in others. If the mind be but well cultivated, and the heart well disposed, no one ever cares for the exterior….so say we to the children of the present day. All very judicious and proper no doubt; but are such assertions supported by actual experience?

I'm all in favor of admiring Anne Brontë, for all sorts of reasons both in her writing and in her personal life. I admire her too.

"I always lacked common sense when taken by surprise."

“[…] the footman was waiting, with an open umbrella, to escort Miss Murray […]. I was about to follow; but Mr. Weston had an umbrella too, and offered me the benefit of its shelter, for it was raining heavily.