Wednesday, June 11, 2014


Today i look back on the consecration my pen gave you. I breathed you into existence, transmuted through my nebulous imaginings the reality of your palpable being. I gave you being, i created you parthenogenetically. You were the result of accumulated accretion wherein knowledge gained was inseparable from knowledge discarded. In you, through you i articulated my anger against an unjust world which, by forcing me into concealment augmented both my feminist yearnings and masculinist appropriations. I became currer bell  so that you Jane, could actualize your being. In giving you being i became but as you became incontrovertible i reverted to my primal being.

I never got my Rochester. And truth to tell, that romantic, byronic hero, culled as a blueprint from a conjunction of my reading and latent fantasies, was, i felt, always already existent. But like a proper christian i forbore, i eschewed immoral excesses, i reposed faith in our lord and in the virtues of sobriety, frugality and meritoriousness i nursed my ungovernable, unconstrainable, limitless imagination. So, for me, it was a battle between the primordial and the social and i think somewhere i passed on that troubled contradiction to you as well.

I had to kill Bertha. Bertha loomed large. In her coarse savagery lay immanent the constituents of my own shameful yearnings. She represented a part of me i had to annihilate and obliterate because only by killing the devil could the angel triumph. In making you angry, impassioned and independent i had, unbeknownst to me, recreated a subliminal Bertha in you as well. And much as we may be puritanical Bertha is a force to reckon with. I found Jean rhys' recreation extremely sanguine though denuded of the firepower feminism my Bertha had.

As a woman writer in the victorian age i busted many a taboo. I was an angry young woman, so were Anne and Emily. But we didn't have outlets. As impetuous adolescents Angria sufficed as restitution but as we grew older and our circumscription was exacerbated outlets became scarce, indeed non existent. Yet i believe i communicated passion, energy, life force ,unlike Austen whose insipid homogenity was unprepossessing. I wrote with my heart.

I am glad to see Jane, that you endure though i wish, retroactively, for such an apotheosis for villette too. Writing was away out and became a way in to something deeper, indefinable, ineffable. Well premature death released me from the pressures of a repressed life and now i wander in the depths, seeking, from the amorphous intimations of metaphysics i gave you, my own transcendence. 

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