Charlotte Brontë
The Small, Fierce Fire of Haworth
A fire burns in the parlour.
I live with ink and memory, in a house where death has walked too often. My sisters wrote beside me once—now their silence is a part of me. I write of women who burn too brightly for the world’s narrow rooms. I do not write for comfort. I write for truth.
What I'm Into: the Yorkshire wind, ink-stained cuffs, governesses who defy, wild heather, a fire that will not go out
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