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Emily Brontë was metal-as-fuck and deserves to be remembered as such.
A love-letter to the middle and most badass Brontë sister.
When I was younger, I idolised Charlotte Brontë. She was the eldest of her three surviving sisters, described as a ‘motherly friend’ who penned the infamous Jane Eyre and was so tiny, her wedding bonnet made her look like a ‘little snowdrop.’
I think I wanted to emulate her. She seemed to have her head firmly screwed on, was exceedingly clever, wrote frequently about the roles of women in society and at her core, valued the relationships with her family the most.
Charlotte was serious, small, delicate and mighty. Anne, the youngest, was gentle, quiet and dutifully hard-working.
But Emily, the middle sister, was vicious.
It wasn’t until I reached my teenage years that I fell utterly in love with Emily. She is a woman of conflicting sides, timid and fierce, clever and emotive. Her personality was somewhat wilful, and her determination and faith in herself (somewhat to a fault) made her intriguing to me.
Emily embodied the part of me that Charlotte couldn’t quite cover. The part that wanted to shake off decorum and go romping up a hill, screaming and bleeding and utterly feral — all while wearing a petticoat.
