Certainly Emile. I'm in love with Emily Bronte. I have sat upon the couch on which she died. I wasn't supposed to. It was roped off. I waited for the curator's attention to be distracted and and stepped over the rope.
I could have saved her. I have sat at the bar in the Black Bull where Branwell sat. Going up the cobbles to the Parsonage after a few pints is convincing evidence that he did arrive home black and blue. And I was in the daylight.
One of my book-cases has nothing else in it but Bronte stuff. I understand why the civilised world is fascinated by the family. But Emily is the key.
"He comes with western winds, with evening's wandering airs,
With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars;
Winds take a pensive tone and stars a tender fire
And visions rise and change which kill me with desire."
I walked the moors where she walked. I have stood silent before her tomb.
"No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere:
I see Heaven's glories shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from Fear. "