There is a meme circling online asking whether you’re an Emily Brontë or a Charlotte Brontë person. Every thirteen-year-old girl must decide, according to the post, with the implication that the way you answer that question at thirteen will determine the rest of your life. I was a Charlotte person, unambiguously. Charlotte’s world made sense to me in the way I needed the world to make sense at that age, offering self-respect, moral clarity, and—most importantly for my teenage self—a love story that felt earned. Jane Eyre taught me that suffering could be metabolized into dignity, that integrity was its own reward. I found Emily’s novel disturbing in a way I couldn’t quite name and kept my distance from it for years. Decades, really.
Emerald Fennell’s new film adaptation has brought Wuthering Heights back into the conversation, and I suspect a lot of people are returning to Emily Brontë right now, or encountering her for the first time. Before you see it—or alongside it, or instead of it, depending on your disposition—I’d recommend picking up Karen Powell’s 2023 novel Fifteen Wild Decembers. It is the best preparation I know for that encounter, because far from softening Emily’s brutal vision or making Wuthering Heights more palatable, it offers something I didn’t have as a young reader: the context of what Emily Brontë was actually writing about, and why.
Powell’s novel is narrated in Emily’s voice, and centers her role as primary caretaker for her brother Branwell during the years she was writing Wuthering Heights. Branwell Brontë—once the family’s great hope, the son on whom all expectations rested—spent those years in a spiral of alcohol and laudanum addiction, humiliated by a failed love affair with a married employer, cycling through rages and remorse, through binges and vows of sobriety that lasted until they didn’t. He died in September 1848, just months after Emily’s novel was published. She followed him that December.
What Powell renders so precisely is the dailiness of that care. Emily hauling Branwell home from drinking, supporting what she drily describes as “two grown men up the stairs, one half-blind, the other incapable”—her father, whose eyesight was failing, and her brother, who could barely stand. Emily scrubbing a soiled rug in the back kitchen the morning after, while Charlotte’s voice comes at her “sour as an underripe plum,” asking why she can’t make Branwell clean up after himself. The landlord at the inn, looking doubtfully at Emily as Branwell is shouldered to the door, shirt half-untucked, one sleeve of his coat hanging empty: You’ll manage? And Emily managing, as she always does, turning him in the right direction and tacking their way home.
These scenes are not dramatic in any conventional sense. They are repetitive by design, because that is what this kind of caregiving actually is—the same crisis with minor variations, the same hope extinguished in roughly the same way, the same morning after. Powell understands that the accumulation of these moments is itself a form of knowledge, and that Emily was accumulating it in real time while writing one of the strangest novels in the English language. (Ellen O'Connell Whittet)
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