Emily Brontë

The problem is not that she wrote one novel. It is that everyone stops there. She was a poet first — Gondal, exile, the dead who will not stay buried — publishing as a man because those poems were not supposed to come out of a Yorkshire parsonage. She baked the bread, walked until the weather broke, refused London, and built a private empire with her sister Anne. Wuthering Heights is what happened when that weather hit a house. The poems are the weather itself. Gone at thirty.