You would have thought that with scenery like this, I’d have come home with some first-rate pictures of Abbotsford, the castle-style home Sir Walter Scott built, but as I spent the time there in a weird state of literary reverie, this is as good as I could muster.
I read Waverley, as a youngster, but I’m ashamed to confess I have forgotten it. The Bride Of Lammermoor, a romantic horror story, stays with me. Continue reading “Abbotsford: Sir Walter Scott’s Home In The Scottish Borders”
I’ve been looking for pictures of plants to bring to life the garden created by Rappaccini, the twisted plant breeder of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s fable, and ‘as true a man of science as ever distilled his own heart in an alembic’. Rappaccini, like Frankenstein, used science to create a monster: his beguiling, innocent, but deadly daughter Beatrice. He and his daughter tend a collection of poisonous plants with heady, intoxicating fragrances that can wither and kill. Continue reading “Recreating Rappaccini’s Garden: an Eden of Poisonous Flowers”
It’s ironic that Charlotte Brontë – who fruitlessly campaigned for her work to be judged on the same terms as men – is now about as close to the ranks of DWEM (dead, white, European, male writers) as a woman can be.
Her views – like herself – are from the 19th century. So perhaps I shouldn’t be so surprised to see bloggers struggling with the idea of whether it’s OK for today’s women to read the pioneering books written by this Victorian writer. Continue reading “Is it OK to read Charlotte Brontë’s books?”