It is Halloween and I am writing a lecture about Wuthering Heights. To that end, here is Branwell Brontë’s 1834 painting of his sisters. Look at them gazing out weirdly at us—or at—what? Why are they all looking off in such strange directions? Who on earth are they looking at? Obviously they are staring at ghosts. Branwell’s weak abilities as a painter here get at something real about the people he knew best.
(The talk starts about 2 and a half minutes into this video.)
Read the full piece.
Yesterday we learned from David Gilmour that being in conversation with “a young woman” means one doesn’t need to take one’s words seriously—but then Gilmour also taught us that literary “seriousness” is just for straight white dudes. Education’s great, eh? I can hear Jane Austen guffawing into a carefully hemmed sleeve in the sky. […] Hearing about Gilmour’s terrible perspective has at least given us a chance to push forward a better conversation about what it means to read well, honestly, widely, ethically, and about what it should mean to “teach literature.”
Full post is here.
My scientist-atheist mother was witness to a miracle, and as a child I helped her chase saints from Rome to the Bronx to Grace Street in Toronto. After twenty-five years of miracle-hunting, now the book is out, and we are very excited about it.
Medical Saints (Oxford, 2013), by Jacalyn Duffin