Thought about it...you know what?
I do believe I am...
I've been going through my extensive collection of books and noting which ones have had the most effect on me in terms of formulating my own romantic notions and...surprise surprise...Bronte is at the top of the list...
I have such stupid romantic notions...I'm all utterly victorian, intellect-based, or swept away with romance based on unrequited love or intense affairs doomed to end in tragedy!
Quite simply, I don't belong in this era...
Am I the only one in this day and age?? HELP!!
My most-loved novels list as follows:
Emily Bronte : Wuthering Heights (please no comparisons to Kate Bush...I get that all the time from people...)
Thomas Hardy : Tess of the D'urbervilles (after reading, once listened to this on audio-cassette too...sobbed for HOURS afterwards)
Gustave Flaubert : Madame Bovary (read this when I was about 13 or 14 I think...old copy of my mothers!)
Emile Zola : Therese Raquin
Daniel Defoe : Moll Flanders
Bram Stoker : Dracula
There are other literary works that have had a profound effect on me in this manner...mostly similar to the above, and I can't recall the titles...
Film-wise...'Dangerous Liasons' (Stephen Frears, 1988) rates very highly, amongst, many others...mostly based on unrequited love and eventual death of the heroine...and (obviously) film versions of the above books...and I'm adding Moulin Rouge to my list since my recent viewing.
Poetry-wise...gawd...everything including Metaphysical Poetry, John Donne (A Valediction Forbidding Mourning) and the Romantic Classics of Keats, Byron, Shelley...
A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning
As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say
The breath goes now, and some say, No:
So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move,
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears,
Men reckon what it did and meant,
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refined
That our selves know not what it is,
Inter-assur'd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.
-- John Donne