One of the things I like about my Kindle is that it shuts itself off when it's been idle for a while. Even better, it displays sketches of famous authors. Alexandre Dumas looks downright cuddly. Mark Twain looks like he's being dashingly portrayed by Sam Elliott. Charlotte Bronte has been prettified, but not too much. Harriet Beecher Stowe looks so grandmotherly -- like she might slip you a just-baked gingerbread cookie. John Steinbeck is handsome in a startlingly contemporary way.
Emily Dickinson? Not my favorite picture of her. Why didn't they choose the famous one? That's the Emily I see when I'm reading her beautifully economical slant-rhymes, not this creepy-eyed thing in a clown collar. I'm actually reminded more of Emily Bronte. The woman in this picture looks fully capable of seeing Catherine Earnshaw's ghost at the window and dreaming up a brooding, detestable character like Heathcliff.