It's very odd to be writing anything about this, because in many ways, I feel completely unjustified passing any kind of judgement upon it at all. It sounds silly, because they're letters, so of course they're personal, but there are really some intensely private pieces collected in here that I honestly felt very uncomfortable reading. I felt like I was intruding and poking my nose into something I shouldn't be seeing and that I was violating someone else's privacy. And privacy where it really mattered, as well.
(As a sidenote, this correspondence is really illuminating in historical terms; they're written in an incredibly different style from the kind of epistles we see included in Victorian novels. Depending on who they're addressed to, Charlotte's style can be variously colloquial, disjointed, earnest, affectionate and informal. It's kind of amazing to think, wow, these are real letters that were sent and composed and received).
A part of me feels uncomfortable with the fact that these letters are so easy to get hold of? They're of invaluable use to scholars and researchers and undergrads like me writing dissertations because they're the closest and most accurate insight we have into the lives of the reclusive Bronte's, but...I also feel like there are some letters that really oughn't to be looked at in any academic capacity whatsoever. For instance, here is a passage that genuinely made me tear up, about Charlotte's inability to look at the landscape around her in the same way after Anne and Emily's death:
I am free to walk on the moors – but when I go out there alone – everything reminds me of others when when others were with me and then the moors seem a wilderness, featureless, solitary, saddening – My sister Emily had a particular love of them, and there is not a knoll of heather, nor a branch of fern, not a young bilberry leaf not a fluttering lark or a linnet but reminds me of her. The distant prospects were Anne’s delight, and when I look around, she is in the blue tints, the pale mists, the waves and shadows of the horizon. In the hill-country silence their poetry comes by lines and stanzas to my mind: once I loved it – now I dare not read it.
It's just heartbreaking to read. And I suppose, for me, it ties in too uncomfortably with this abounding fascination of the personal biographies of the Bronte's -- this sense that you can trace their lives so faithfully in their books -- that people have tried to uncover and unturn every tiny trivial detail of their day-to-day lives. Not even the handkerchief that Anne held to her mouth to cover her coughs, stained with her blood as she died from TB, is exempt from the public's prying eyes in the parsonage museum. I suppose I just feel like we should give them the respect they're due and let them rest in peace. Especially because it seems that the more we discover about their lives the more tragic they seem, the closer that narrative superimposed over their novels; the more people are inclined to pity them, seeing their lives as confined, miserable, unfulfilled, wasted, or seeing their books as mere exercises wish-fulfillment (coughcharlottecough). We really need to discourage this narrative that so effectively reduces their work down to diluted reflections or fantasies of themselves, rather than works of real literary merit, and even pure creative genius.