Yes, apparently I have been on a female Victorian novelists kick. Oh, well. And yes, I have already blogged about the Brontës in general--well, Charlotte and Emily. I've got nothing in particular against Branwell.
Jane Eyre is really really awful. Ladies, you do not have to fall in love with grumpy, bigamous lunatics. Gentlemen, self-effacing and gloomy women who won't wear anything but grey alpaca are really not that great.
Sure, they talk about how perfect they are for each other, but did you ever get that impression? What exactly was it that attracted them to each other, besides Charlotte Brontë's pathetic hope that men like plain, boring women, and her impressive ability to write theoretically unhandsome men whom you can tell that she actually thinks are the lobster's dress shirt?
Oh, god, and then he has to go blind in the end, just so Jane can be the dominant personality and Miss Brontë can write out her weird Florence Nightingale fantasy. I hate psychoanalyzing authors, but she could at least have made an effort.
Of course, if it were really Branwell....