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The Brontës – What’s Up With Them?

You’re a 20something girl who says she likes to read. Maybe you majored in English and’re now working in a completely unrelated field, because honestly, what real use is it being an English major? The point is, chances are you’ve read books by at least two of the three Brontë sisters who made it to mature adulthood. That family reminds me of sea turtles. Sea turtles lay a bunch of eggs because they know that not many of them’re gonna make it, what with crafty seagulls and other seashore animals I’m not going to research right now pilfering their eggs or eating the babies as they try to scurry to the ocean. According to Wikipedia, which I just accessed (and which confirms my seagull idea), approximately one sea turtle out of a hundred survives.

The Brontë parents started out with six children. Maria, Elizabeth, Charlotte, Branwell, Emily and Anne. I would like to point out that they were born between 1814 and 1820, making their mother a saint and their father the devil (nah, he was supposed to be a nice guy). Oh, and the only reason they stopped having children every year is that she died in 1821. 19th century, you suck.

Charlotte, who I probably don’t need to point out is the author of Jane Eyre, lived the longest, which was to 39. 39. Poor little human sea turtle. I mean, there the similarity actually ends, I guess, because the cool thing about being the one sea turtle in a hundred to survive is that you live a fricking LONG time, and get to say “Screw you, seagull who ate my brother! Tonight you dine in hell!”

I assume he says this to the corpse of the seagull, who probably died of old age because the average lifespan of a seagull is 40 years, but a green sea turtle’s is 80 years. So he can wait him out.

I explained this comparative situation of the Literary Family of Yorkshire vs. the Majestic Sea Turtle to the sassy FedEx lady who delivers here (her name is Nina) and her only comment was “The turtles are in better shape than the Brontës.” So there we have it. Sea turtles pwn Brontës. I should make a graphic of that. In fact, BAM:

Basically what I’m saying is there was something weird going on with the Brontës. The two oldest died first, which I guess you would maybe expect in a family, only the first was 11 when she died, and the next was 10. Branwell, the alcoholic only son, died the same year Emily did, and they were swiftly followed by Anne. Charlotte lasted six years after that until she reached the aforementioned lofty age of 39.

I’m not solving any historical riddles here, obviously. I just find the Brontës weird and wanted to note that down somewhere. People have analyzed their books to death and I’m not going to add one more voice to that multitude. But I will compare them to aquatic animals. Also, I hate Wuthering Heights.


  1. The delivery people to your building must feel so special.

  2. I haven't told her yet that she was mentioned. That'll be a happy Monday surprise.

  3. I love Wuthering Heights and I would drink, too, if my name were Branwell.

  4. I love this and I love your writing style. :)


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