Sisters in literature as in life suffer from the inevitable comparisons they are made subject to: one is the pretty one, or the talented one etcetera. Your sister can be both your companion and your competitor she’s your best friend and your worst enemy, she can be a bitch, and from what I have observed she certainly can bring out the bitch in you. Of course, I know that it’s not all sugar, that spice is in the mix too, not to mention a dash of arsenic on occasion. Even those Kardashian girls, love or hate them, seem to share an enviable loyalty to each other which unites them against the world. I’ve been encouraged in my view that sisters walk hand-in-hand on enchanted ground, by those historic and literary sisters who play on our emotions such as: Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, Jane Austen’s Dashwood sisters, Blanche and Stella in, A Streetcar named Desire. I have always imbued that relationship with what my head tells me is an unrealistic cosiness, while my heart continues to long for it. I’m lucky enough to have two brothers but the sister thing, the broken link, has never stopped nagging at me. I’ve avoided writing about it for years, and now looking at it written so boldly on this page all these years later I’m shocked to see the fact of it in print. The inspiration for this piece on sisters in literature has been brewing in me since I was six years old when my little sister Susan aged three, sadly died from pneumonia. Sisters in Literature: Wonderful companions or competitors with a tinge of arsenic?
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