March 25, 2011
In the post below, I mention my theory on the Bronte sisters as wild wing-ding women, and while some might disagree, those disagreers are probably also the people who no one invites to parties, and who sit at home chewing their cud and cursing their mealy-minded lonesome parched existences. The below quote, also from Charlotte’s underappreciated Shirley, is one of my favorite short, one line quotes that utilize drinks in a way of describing a facet of existence. It’s almost a maxim, in a way, to live by—or at least can be applied to life. If you don’t agree, well, it’s probably because you’re boring. But if you want to argue, let me call up those bubbly Bronte sisters–do you really want to argue with the ghosts of three famous English writers? I mean, who’s more dangerous than that?
Adventure is to stagnation as Champagne is to flat porter.
—Shirley, Charlotte Bronte
March 23, 2011
When they’re talked of (which is a lot, one hopes), the Bronte sisters (Charlotte, Emily, and Anne) aren’t usually referred to as party animals. This is, of course, a crying shame. As their books are filled with well-rounded characters, and usually contain a wee tipple or tippling, or a bar, and mostly entertaining writing that pulls you in, as opposed to pushing you out, my thought is that for the years they lived within the sisters were a rollicking good time, and probably were thought of somewhat in the same way we think of modern party animal writers like J. Robert Lennon and Andrew Greer (at least when those two modern scribes are wearing hoop skirts). In any case, the Spiked Punch is going to dwell for two posts on quotes from Charlotte’s novel Shirley, published in 1849 and as worthy a read (I think) as her much more fawned over Jane Eyre (though admittedly I like me the Jane Eyre, too). This first quote falls into the “bar” shelf in the Cocktail Talk kitchen, and describes lovingly a 1800s watering hole (and I have a confession–I think longingly of whisky-and-water myself on occasion):
He looked for certain landmarks–the spire of Briarfield Church; farther on, the lights of Redhouse. This was an inn; and when he reached it, the glow of a fire through a half-curtained window, a vision of glasses on a round table, and of revelers on an oaken settle, had nearly drawn aside the curate from his course. He thought longingly of a tumbler of whisky-and-water.
—Shirley, Charlotte Bronte
