/lit/ - Literature

My cellphone is a psychic tether to everyone I know. I can’t enjoy the peace of solitude if any one of them can reach out and electro-shock me with a message at any second. I’m letting all these people stick pipes in my brain. There is metal in my brain. I always keep my phone on silent to save myself the lash of notification. I flip my phone over to stop myself from glancing at it thirty times a minute checking for messages that sometimes come. Sending text into my brain. My endocrine system is being raped by these bastards!
I have to live in a world of instant communication. This is my fate. My brain is exposed for anyone to stick a pipe into.

>>23222395

>>22257170
Yes.

>all the great female artists had gender dysphoria

Bros...

>skilled pianist who could sight read and even transcribe music
>gifted poet and novelist (of course)
>fluent in French and German
>Able to read and write Latin
>excellent shot with a pistol and capable wing-shooter with a shotgun
>skilled artist in water colors and pencil sketches

How is a sickly girl from Victorian Yorkshire intellectually and morally superior to 99.99% of men (to say nothing of women) today?

>be autistic woman in a family of great novelists
>writing poetry
>one day decide to write a novel
>it's a perfect masterpiece and BTFO of every book your sisters wrote
How did she do it?

Who is the greatest female author? Pic related

>everyone tells her that if she tends her consumptive brother she will catch TB and die
>she does it anyway
>catches TB and dies
Pathetic. And this is what passes for intelligent among the anglos

>tfw you will never know Emily Brontë carnally

>In the guttering light of cheap, half length candles and the remains of a coal fire in the grate you gently undress her. She's trembling, her nerves shot to pieces by worry, loss, fame, and the ravages of consumption. You hesitate, she is so thin, so deeply broken, but she leans in, resting her head with its ringlet curls on your chest. The wind off the moors batters against the parsonage and you hear her father's footsteps in the hall downstairs. You're afraid, afraid she might die then and there, or in some more compromised position, and in a stroke destroy a lifetime's reputation for virtue. She looks up at you, her gaze at once into your eyes and far, far away. "Don't be afraid, anon, nothing matters anymore."

>>20795539
>>20795540
And Emily writes well and has a cute personality :^)

Harp of wild and dream-like strain,
When I touch thy strings,
Why dost thou repeat again
Long-forgotten things?

Harp, in other, earlier days,
I could sing to thee;
And not one of all my lays
Vexed my memory.

But now, if I awake a note
That gave me joy before,
Sounds of sorrow from thee float,
Changing evermore.

Yet, still steeped in memory's dyes,
They come sailing on,
Darkening all my summer skies,
Shutting out my sun.

>years ago, happen to see an Emily Brontë poem posted on /lit/
>years later I have a huge collection of Brontë material and have just been to the British Library to study academic editions of the poems and saw Emily's original Gondal Poems notebook and one of Charlotte's Angria notebooks
It's become quite a journey anons. Thanks to the fellow basement dweller who posted the poem "I am the only being whose doom..." all that time ago.

>Emily Brontë, once diagnosed with consumption, did everything in her power to hasten the progress of the disease. She refused medical care and continued her daily routine of chores and writing until she was too weak to do so. Charlotte was very concerned that her actions would be considered a type of suicide, and sought a religious ruling from family patriarch Patrick Brontë on the matter. His opinion is lost to history, but, given that she was buried in a Anglican cemetery by Patrick we can assume he judged it a natural death. It’s no wonder many of her loved ones saw her death as a potentially self inflicted. Emily cried herself to sleep almost every night from her adolescence onward and was the most melancholy member of the household. She often refused food, and nearly froze to death on the moors, walking them in the deep winter with no regard to her safety. Near the end, delirious with blood poisoning, Emily composed darker and more psychedelic poems that evoked Christian mysticism and expressed a strong desire for death.

Was it autism?

>Brontë, once diagnosed with consumption, did everything in her power to hasten the progress of the disease. She refused medical care and continued her daily routine of chores and writing until she was too weak to do so. Charlotte was very concerned that her actions would be considered a type of suicide, and sought a religious ruling from family patriarch Patrick Brontë on the matter. His opinion is lost to history, but, given that she was buried in a Anglican cemetery by Patrick we can assume he judged it a natural death.

>Delirious with blood poisoning, Emily composed darker and more psychedelic poems that evoked Christian mysticism and expressed a strong desire for death.

>It’s no wonder many of her loved ones saw her death as a potentially self inflicted. Emily cried herself to sleep almost every night from her adolescence onwards and was the most melancholy member of the household. She often refused food, and nearly froze to death on the moors, walking them in the deep winter with no regard to her safety.

>>18981193

>Emily Brontë, while eccentric (at times floridly so) was by no means a modern, educated woman transplanted into a repressive past, as female artists in history are so often idealized. On the contrary she was an unrepentant Country Tory, devout Christian, and an advocate for the expansion of the British Empire. Indeed, it seems the only man she ever loved was the arch-Conservative Duke of Wellington, a romantic obsession that lasted most of her life and inspired most of the heroic men in her and Anne's Gondal paracosm. Her lived experience encompassed things modern feminist scholars and readers hardly ever contemplate, such as owning and regularly using a shotgun for pleasure and foraging. She was the best shot in her family, to the horror of her brother Branwell, a gun enthusiast (until his firearms were hidden by his father, fearing he would kill himself in a drunken fit). This is not to say she was not a feminist, as her refusal to marry and attempts to seek self sufficiency (to say nothing of her purported unconsummated attraction to women) indicate. Rather, it should stand as a caution to scholars who assume historical creative personalities they fancy would slot neatly into their bourgeois metropolitan circles.

>My soul yet lives in spite of my mind. Take joy, it says, but I cannot. There is nothing alive for me. The wind rushes but the sails are riven and fallen away.

~Emily Brontë, personal note scribbled on scrap of paper, circa September 1848 as collected by the Brontë Society

>>18585318
You rang? Savitri? No, I'm not into moralists.

>completes magnum opus
>dies

Why is this so common? Are sickly authors sustained by the will to finish their work? Conversely does the completion of that work and often a poor contemporary reception rob them of the will to live?

>died a virgin
>didn't even understand the mechanics of sex

You rang?

Was she an incel?

>>14642361
That's an imaginative portrait. The only verified contemporary painting is this one by her brother.