A Ghost in my World.

That old fixation on Emily Brontë is back. It’s as though every now and then her ghost walks through the door and demands attention, her limpid eyes staring steadily and softly before shifting to steel and spearing the mind until the heart capitulates. Charlotte said of her sister: ‘An interpreter ought always to have stood between her and the world.’ Emily was dead by then, otherwise I think she would have asked the same question I do:

'Which world?'