Rating: ★ ★ ★ ★ ☆
Date Read: August 12 to 24, 2016
Liked it much better this time around mostly because I chose to read it (for a book club), not because it was forced on me as a school assignment.
Back then, I didn’t–or maybe couldn’t–appreciate the sweeping nature of Emily Brontë’s use of language, but now I like it. She painted countryside scenery so very well, and she did the same with extreme characterization. I could read whole books about the wilderness and the moors and cliffs and crags of Wuthering Heights. More setting, less plot and even less on characters, and we’re good. The land on which the estate sat was painted with sweeping language as well, but with a haunting overtone. The scenery overall is beautifully rendered, and the characters and their relationships too, though tragically so.
I think it was this book that made me first realize I had an intense appreciation for stories that don’t end well, and the intensity of Bronte’s language makes experiencing her creation a deeply visceral–albeit somewhat satisfying, somewhat disturbing–journey.
“I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff’s miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it. My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.”
I admit my enjoyment of this book stems from my enjoyment of seeing melodramatic, first-world-problems characters suffer, mostly at their own hands. But the melodramatic prose is good too. Sometimes you’re just in the right mood for an over-the-top period drama with beautiful sweeping scenery and lots of people screaming. Nothing beats Wuthering Heights there.