Charlotte Bronte on Toast

There is a blog called The Millions. Several reviewers contribute regularly, meditating on the world of books. One of these folks, Garth Risk Hallberg (an astute and deft reviewer), was kind enough to plug this blog on that blog. Hallberg gives a brief synopsis of my book, and then directs people here to learn more. In doing so, he suggests, facetiously, "If you've recently run across a Charlotte Bronte-shaped under arm stain, or a puddle that looks like William Shatner," that you should check out my modest little project.

If you're reading this, I assume that you don't need to be told how blogs speak to other blogs, distilling keywords into additional webbing that bindingly extends this networked world. And if you do need the process explained -- I'm not the guy to do it, because I don't get it, and as I get more involved with it, I feel like an explorer entering into a never-ending landscape that leads everywhere, though it takes you nowhere.

But I digress . . .



This is an image of a Charlotte Bronte on a piece of humble toast! It's been a long time since I've read Jane Eyre, and it probably will be an even longer time before I read it again. But, thanks to some cursory Googling it is clear that Bronte's protagonist swoons over the simple, crusty pleasures of a fine piece of toast.

The Bronte Toast was made public 150 years to the day after Bronte died, which according to my calendar math dates this toast to March 31, 2000. There's not much written about the Bronte Toast, and it seems clear that it was a rather erudite jape by photographer Alec Norbet-Troth, as the brief article draws a parallel between this baked-good countenance and those so common here in America (though Madonna of the Toast contains several British examples of these phenomena).

Charlotte Bronte, being a literary giant, has a blog dedicated to her; it's called the Bronte Blog. One of their intrepid researchers discovered the blog post written by Hallberg and then re-launched the Bronte Toast into the Blogoshpere.

I suppose these days, it all just orbits forever . . .