As the work went on, the interest deepened to the writer. When she came to 'Thornfield' she could not stop. Charlotte endeavored, and succeeded, in demonstrating that true character and consistency is not only interesting but beautiful. Yes, and I want you to read it. But Charlotte wrote more than just novels.
Poetry is the music of the heart, and out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks.
One day, in the autumn of 1845, I accidentally lighted on a manuscript volume of verse in my sister Emily's handwriting. I thought them condensed and terse, vigorous and genuine. To my ear, they had also a peculiar music - wild, melancholy, and elevating. I knew, however, that a mind like hers could not be without some latent spark of honourable ambition, and refused to be discouraged in my attempts to fan that spark to flame. Meantime, my younger sister quietly produced some of her own compositions, intimating that, since Emily's had given me pleasure, I might like to look at hers.