The Brontë sisters and the village of Haworth, in England

Haworth. That is the name of Charlotte's birthplace. I went there on 26th October 1997, 11 years ago!

Haworth is a village in the English county of Yorkshire. I remember it well, especially the long walk upon the moors - what a view! http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haworth

I went there with a group of classmates from the University of Leeds, where I was studying at that time. Visiting Haworth was part of the course Language and Culture in Britain and our lecturer, Mrs. Caroline (can't remember her surname) also went with us.

We left Leeds train station at around 11 am and arrived in Haworth at around 12 am, the trip was pretty short.

In Haworth, not only did we visit the Brontë sisters' parsonage - a museum maintained by the Brontë society - but we also had a 'practical lesson' in terms of English culture by walking along the village streets, visiting the railway workshop, having lunch in an English pub and going shopping for souvenirs.

Trying to remember the details of my trip to Haworth - which had been stored for so long in my brain - not only made me go looking for my old pictures and papers but also brought me sweet memories which had already been forgotten.

How about you? Would you like to visit the Brontë's village?

Did you like watching the movie Jane Eyre? How far have you reached in terms of your readings of the book?

Looking forward to seeing you again,

Dani Almeida

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The question is: To be or not to be? That is the question...

HAMLET

Act 3, scene I

The question is: is it better to be alive or dead? Is it nobler to put up with all the nasty things that luck throws your way, or to fight against all those troubles by simply putting an end to them once and for all? Dying, sleeping—that's all dying is—a sleep that ends all the heartache and shocks that life on earth gives us—that's an achievement to wish for. To die, to sleep—to sleep, maybe to dream. Ah, but there's the catch: in death's sleep who knows what kind of dreams might come, after we've put the noise and commotion of life behind us. That's certainly something to worry about. That's the consideration that makes us stretch out our sufferings so long.

After all, who would put up with all life's humiliations—the abuse from superiors, the insults of arrogant men, the pangs of unrequited love, the inefficiency of the legal system, the rudeness of people in office, and the mistreatment good people have to take from bad—when you could simply take out your knife and call it quits? Who would choose to grunt and sweat through an exhausting life, unless they were afraid of something dreadful after death, the undiscovered country from which no visitor returns, which we wonder about without getting any answers from and which makes us stick to the evils we know rather than rush off to seek the ones we don't? Fear of death makes us all cowards, and our natural boldness becomes weak with too much thinking. Actions that should be carried out at once get misdirected, and stop being actions at all. But shh, here comes the beautiful Ophelia. Pretty lady, please remember me when you pray.