Diary Paper November 1834 |
In most biographies of writers, you find the author reporting on
the subject’s dozens, if not hundreds of letters left behind, as well as early drafts of
their work, or discarded manuscripts that never got published. These works might have been kept by
relatives or in museums, or stashed away in desk drawers. Charlotte's output of
letters consists of 3 volumes. Writers must write. It's in
their DNA. Emily and Anne wrote a couple of letters and a few pages of diary/birthday papers. Emily and Anne weren't writers, but Charlotte made them into authors
when she announced to the world that Currer Bell, Ellis Bell, and Acton Bell
were three brothers. Later when the possibility of legal action necessitated
her having to admit they were actually three sisters, she kept their male pen-names on the novels, and died before revealing their real names to her reading public.
Why she did this is outlined and explained in detail in Charlotte Brontë’s Thunder.
A July 2009 article by literary critic Augustin Trapenard in the
Brontë Studies magazine, entitled “Auctorial
(Im)Postures in Emily Brontë’s Diary Papers” finds much to be admired in Emily’s
writing. (The diary papers are also discussed in my book, but this link is
quickly available.)
Trapenard begins: “Of Emily Brontë’s experience as a
writer, the least we can say is that we do not know much.” He adds that reading
the diary papers, “is enough to shatter the icon of Emily as a Romantic genius
or Victorian martyr.” He says this because critics agree that the writing is
bad and, as Juliet Barker points out, “the dreadful handwriting and spelling
are scarcely credible as the work of a highly intelligent sixteen-year-old.” If we were shown these papers without knowing
who wrote them, we might bring a more objective eye to the childish musings, and
view the writing as mediocre, but if we’re told Emily is a genius, we search through her words for a multi-layered profundity that simply isn't there. I personally don’t
believe these diary papers contain sufficient complexity to warrant a close
analysis, but if a critic like Trapenard wants to try, we should respect his
efforts but be permitted to disagree.
Emily and Anne wrote basic facts about
their day and noted what had happened in the intervening years since their last
diary entry. Trapenard states that “the two sisters’ auctorial postures were at first deliberately
staged as a discursive imposture.” The sisters weren’t what they seemed. In one
of the lines from the diary paper of 1834, the meaning must remain ambiguous
because the last word is missing: “The last word of the phrase is an illegible
blotch.” That's because Emily always got ink all over her hands and left
blotches throughout her transcriptions of poems as well as on the diary papers.
She rarely held a pen, so ink stains were a bi-product of her writing. Trapenard
then analyzes Emily’s description of her interaction with Tabby the family’s
servant. First, Emily’s remarks about Tabby telling her to peel potatoes: “Taby said on my
putting a pen in her face Ya pitter pottering there instead of pilling a potate
I answered O Dear, O Dear, O Dear I will derictly With that I get up, take a
Knife and begin pilling.”
Trapenard notes that “the
use of obsessive repetitions, the multiplicity of plosives and aggressive
alliteration betray the speaker's refusal to work and her strong intention to
challenge authority. But the hero’s weapon here is certainly not the kitchen
knife (which she eventually takes to do her job) but the pen that she pokes at
Tabby’s face. Could we dream of a better metaphor for Emily’s domestic
rebellion?”
He adds, “When writing is at stake, Emily appears as a powerful
figure—and everywhere in the Diary Papers, her pen acts as a tool to renegotiate
her position in the parsonage. Now if several critics have been alarmed by the
writer’s untidiness, ill-spelling and childish syntax, I would argue that for a
sixteen-year-old who has not ‘done [her] lessons and [. . .] want[s] to go out
to play’, these mistakes may just be a creative, underground resistance to the
rigid syntax of the domestic sphere.”
He concludes, “The auctorial posture that Emily Brontë adopts is
that of a role player, a chameleon actor, a Greek hypocrite whose multiple
faces are veiled, in other words an impostor. For what is suggested here but a
dramatized, protean self-image — an ethôs made of a plurality of fictionalized
selves? Instead of legitimizing herself as a writer, Emily Brontë was
paradoxically staging her writing as something totally private, thereby
preventing anyone from authorizing her.”
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