Country in Bronte – Bookanista

When I was a child, my parents would go out to the wild of England in Morlands in a brightly colored anorak that clung. Then I didn’t like to go; I was a sick child with a constant migraine, I preferred to read books curved on the couch. So, I dragged through the barrels with a dazzling stick of pain through my eye, I would feel the white cloud from the sky squeezed to my head like a fist or in the summer, grinding, punishing the heat, wanting the walk to end, unable to focus. But over time of this windy place, one leg in front of the other, the shaken beauty of the empty land flooded, gradual, quiet and then, all at once and strong.

First, I had an idea of ​​the history of the north of our walk on the wall of Adrian. I imagined the soldiers in their beautiful metal and leather, guarding the border. During our journey to York, I imagined that the Vikings were sneaking through the taverns and the messs, the robbery and the roar. But for some strange reason, when I look back learning the story of England, I did not imagine women.

It was a bitterly cold day and my sister was screaming in the car. We arrived in the village of Hawworth through the southern pennies Moors on foot, passing through the bright purple Heather, the low wings of the red kite go around, our breath like smoke in a blurry fog. I had a headache, of course. This is BRONTë Country, Haworth Moor setting Emily Bronte Wuthering HeightsS Hawworth himself, at least when I was a child, was a tiny village: shops, Muhovo Cemetery, Church. I based the village in my novel, Land of hopeof heavenly misanthropic aronana Hourt. Today, Hawworth has more shops, tourist things. But this landscape is not susceptible to homogeneous nostalgia – a humid, trembling mystery is still breaking.

I had read Jane Ayer When I was nine years old. This had given me the impression that all the girls should do was stand still, grow into women, and a suitable man would return to the horse from the trees. Instead of thinking about Rochester, Jane’s lover, and later a husband in the book, cruel and manipulative, as well as I, as an adult, then saw him a more desirable, fine figure of a man to take care of selflessly, despite everything. Something I even strive for without even trying, I thought, looking at my mother. Bronte has always written constantly abusers, infinitely submissive women. But I didn’t know better when I was a girl.

I stared at the black stove, imagining these three sick girls Anne, Emily and Charlotte, nestled there for warmth, their household stuck, daring their skirts with thread … ”

The solid, gray stone building characteristic of the Yorkshire style – healthy and practical to withstand the harsh climate of Morland – was built in 1779 as a shelter and became the home of Brontes in 1820 when their father Patrick was appointed Vicar there. By maintaining the parish cemetery, the siblings must constantly stare at death. The loss of their mother and other siblings at a young age left them wild, predisposed and incredibly alone, facing all this strong nature, a huge empty wind and sky, which you can almost touch, densely tongue, raw slap, a heavy reminder that we are insignificant in this world.

The moment I understood exactly how the women lived before me was when I entered the kitchen of Bronte’s house. Supporting asylum of the elements, there is no running water or sewage. It was a dark and cold, low ceiling that felt like the heavy sky when I had migraines.

The management told us that Emily Bronte was her dog. This fact became ill. I stared at the black stove, imagining these three sick girls Anne, Emily and Charlotte, nestled there for warmth, their household stuck, daring their skirts with thread. They were poor, the leader told us that they could not go to school. Instead, they would write stories with their brother Branewell, an alcoholic porridge of a boy, a completely composed fantastic world of wars and heroism they had been talking about for years, as if it were real. When I realized that everyone was dead, I suddenly felt how much they were trapped there. The leadership told us that they were strange, ordinary, little girls, whom no one wanted to get married, and it was scared of me because I was also strange and plain and little, and I was worried that no one would be ignited by the trees to save me from the monotony, maybe they would have to be caught with my parents, for myself, and could The ground.

I was thinking about the Romans and the Vikings, why did I never think about women in those times? Invisible in history, perhaps painted as mothers or wives, but in the background, almost blurred, the landscape of men’s gallant affairs all the time. Then I realized that in this gloomy cuisine, women have to write stories to survive in history. Then I swore to become a writer.

–

Kate Baum was born in Cambridge in a magician and singer on large bands and grew up in the East English province, spending the summer, roaming in the wildlife of the United Kingdom. She visits UCLA to study screenplays, and then the City University, London, acquired a Master’s Master’s degree with honors in creative writing, where she was instructed by Claire Fuller, Claire Allen and Jonathan Merson. She now lives in Spain. Her debut novel Land of hope It mixes the history and myths of the English Moors in a captivating modern English fable of serial killers at the end of the world and was published by Indigo Press.
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An author’s photo by Frederick Henle