“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Linton’s is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire.”
Wuthering Heights is a generational story revolving around the love between Heathcliff (the solo-name guy) and Catherine Linton, and the effects their love-that-transcends-death has on subsequent generations. It is one of the first classics I’ve read that has involved me deeply enough to actually feel the physical effects of wanting to strangle half of the characters (if you read it, you will understand why) and still push through, desperately wishing that I’d come out on the other side grasping to some tendril of hope. And I did! *insert fist-pump here*
First of all, I love literary classics. I am disappointed by contemporary literature fairly often, and the tried-and-true classics have made it through the test of time and very few of them fail my high expectations. That being said, I am not typically very emotionally involved in the story. Excepting A Tale of Two Cities – ahhhhh, Sydney Carton, don’t get me started. And Mr. Darcy. Okay, maybe I’m lying that I don’t get emotionally involved in classics. But Wuthering Heights got me. And I didn’t even like most of it. But I still cared. I STILL CARE, people. The characters are terrible. Horrible, evil human beings. And they get extraordinarily sick from temper tantrums and walking in the cold for an hour – can someone explain this to me? Even the ones that aren’t evil have major character flaws that will frustrate the pants off of you. But you keep reading because you want a happy ending for somebody, anybody!
The telling of the story was a bit strange. Mr. Lockwood is the narrator, but the actual story is being narrated to him by Nelly, the housekeeper (who is a total badass), while he recovers from his ridiculously long “fever” he caught from walking in the snow. See what I mean? Get on that Vitamin C train, fictional characters. Lockwood is not an important character. He isn’t involved in the plot at all, he is just a means of telling us the story.. but Nelly is actually telling him/us the story..so we’re in the same position he is.. so we’re him? I just confused myself. Clearly this is a very strange storytelling device I wouldn’t generally recommend. In addition, this book was written in 1847. It takes a bit of wading through. My copy is only 298 pages and it took me much longer to read than a contemporary novel’s 298 pages. Honestly though, the prose is beautiful. Why don’t we write like that anymore? What has happened to language?? Look at that quote above. Look at it! Stunning, right?! I digress. Back to the point.
Read Wuthering Heights. Please read it. You will hate the characters (especially Linton. Demon spawn). You will desperately search for a ray of sunshine. You will wonder why you are reading such an incredibly depressing book. But it will, without a doubt, make you care. And that’s what reading is all about, isn’t it?
I’ll write again soon. Until then, keep reading.
Found in: Quest No. 1
What’s your favorite Bronte novel?