Supple Sunday

A supple Sunday touch:

Hot skin reconnaissance and

the time for miscellany;

Your soft-spoken nothings

are sweated sweet—

Your suppressed laughter

and the shadow of a smile

are pressed on lips atremble—

A patch of rough skin:

an abrasion of now—

The breath-brush about my ear stirs life and limb,

and confuses the silence of twenty years

without him

Currer Bell and the Feminist Disease

This is a satirical essay I wrote a year or so ago.

                                            Currer Bell and the Feminist Disease

Currer Bell was a great man but nobody ever talks about him anymore. History has forgotten him and his legacy has been swallowed by a rampant tide of feminism that has inexplicably attributed his great work to his homely, adoring lover-editor and scribe: some Charlotte woman. In light of the myriad letters and unpublished manuscripts that have recently surfaced, it is high time that we honor him for his monumental contribution to literature. More importantly, we can now understand the man behind the work; his troubled life sheds new light on the deeply autobiographical aspect of his great novel. The surfacing of these documents—what is now being called the Currer Bell collection—is a revelation for nineteenth-century literary studies. It is nothing less than a Rosetta stone for academics and historians worldwide. The incredible mystery of Jane Eyre’s origins and influences may, at last, be resolved… yet no one is talking about it.

Esteemed experts and entrenched ideologues will continue to deny the existence of Currer Bell and will insist on the authorship of Miss Brönte despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. This response is nothing more than the feminist tyranny that has decimated the memory of some of the greatest men to have ever lived. They will vehemently deny misandry while gleefully castrating the entire literary canon. For example, these supposedly high-minded occupants of the ivory tower refuse to acknowledge the 1845 letter written in Brönte’s own hand that describes the process by which Jane Eyre was written. In this letter, it becomes clear that Brönte served as nothing more than a scribe who recorded Bell’s narrative—something he was unable to do in his blindness. Brönte, Bell’s devoted illegitimate lover, was the only person still at his side after he went mad and seared his eyes out with a hot poker.
Simply for the sake of reserving another great work for a woman, it is puzzling now that scholars contend the legitimacy of the marriage license issued to a Mr. Currer Bell and a Miss Antoinetta Poole. Nor will they acknowledge the records of Bell’s inheritance of an old aristocratic manor in the moors. Currer Bell definitely existed and the Currer Bell Collection ought to be embraced by the status quo because of the complex and illuminating relationship it details between him and Bronte. If anything, these social justice warriors should rejoice in the reality of Miss Bronte’s outspoken, sensual character. Her shameless sexual exploits and tremendous intellectual prowess should be a banner for feminists everywhere, but not at the expense of Mr. Bell. The establishment cannot accept that although Bronte did not author Jane Eyre, she was still a fascinating figure in her own right. According to them, it is not acceptable to chalk her up to another great woman behind a great man (even though this is the unmistakable truth).
Bell’s romantic idealism and subsequent struggles with Victorian-era social norms provide ample material for “gender studies” as well as the actual truth, and it is disappointing that scholars cannot adjust their own blatantly false preconceptions to accept it. Bell’s virtuous loyalty to his emotionally distant wife Antoinette, despite his all-consuming love for Miss Bronte, locates the torment from which Jane Eyre arose. The recently-discovered correspondence between Bell and Bronte is as beautiful as it is informative and possesses an almost Keatsian effusiveness that is missing from his earlier, unpublished work. A letter from July 8th, 1843 serves as a perfect example of his hidden poetic sensitivity:
“My sweet Girl,
Your letter gave me more delight than any thing in the world but yourself could do; indeed I am almost astonished that any absent one should have that luxurious power over my senses which I feel. Even when I am not thinking of you I receive your influence and a tenderer nature stealing upon me. All my thoughts, my unhappiest days and nights, have I find not at all cured me of my love of Beauty, but made it so intense that I am miserable that you are not with me: or rather breathe in that dull sort of patience that cannot be called Life. I never knew before, what such a love as you have made me feel, was; I did not believe in it; my Fancy was afraid of it, lest it should burn me up. But if you will fully love me, though there may be some fire, ‘twill not be more than we can bear when moistened and bedewed with Pleasures.“
Thwarted by the prospect of scandal and the legal intricacies of inheritance, Bell’s extramarital relationship with Brönte would remain a secret until his descent into madness, but this secret ultimately became the seed of one of the most revered stories of all time. Bell’s defamation was inevitable when it was discovered that his lover was just a lowly, young governess who looked after his bastard daughter. After a heated argument with Antoinette, Bell’s insanity became fully manifest in the form of the mangled, fleshy craters that were once his eyes. Ashamed and alone, Bronte became his caretaker and would remain his dedicated partner until his death. In fact, his dying words to Bronte were “I have two luxuries to brood over: your loveliness and my hour of death. “
In a letter to her sister, it would seem, Bronte bemoaned the long hours of transcription by candlelight at Bell’s bedside. Declared “unfit for society”, his ostracism became his solace as he spent the rest of his days with Charlotte, who embodied the enchanting romance of his innermost self. She was, in many ways, his mirror to such a degree that she would ultimately replace Currer Bell altogether as the author of Jane Eyre. Bronte was only an aspiring writer, whereas Bell was an old master, yet their voices are almost indistinguishable in their respective extant manuscripts, which affords Bronte at least some modicum of respect.
The collective conflation of Bell and Bronte is fair in this regard, and also in that Bronte outlived Belle by some 20 years and was the one to actually get the novel published after his death.  The only thing more mysterious than the origins of Jane Eyre is the fact that the academy continues to blatantly disregard the infallible evidence that has been discovered which has the capacity to demystify the whole thing. This is the battle cry to academics everywhere: JUST ACCEPT THE TRUTH.