Wuthering Heights

- By Emily Bronte

Reading classics is like falling back into time, into a world so different from now and seeing the perceptions that once existed and wondering if there is any difference now. Every single time I opened a classic, after what felt like eons of current writings, I always took time to get into the rhythm of the novel, to get the flavor of the sarcasm and wit and to get into the story. And this time, I read Wuthering heights. I remember reading this almost eight years ago and though the story remained with me, I did not enjoy the style or the story, neither did I appreciate the challenge it must have been, to Emily Bronte, to put that thought onto the paper, nor did I appreciate the complexities of the characters in the novel. But now, for some reason, this book, left a staggering amount of mixed feelings.

Any novel, once it falls into a genre, which in this case is romance, comes with a preconceived notion that the book goes about portraying the bonding and the sizzle of the relation. But, this is a romance novel, with no clichéd romanticisms. It is dispassionate with brilliant interventions of self realization and love. Love, in the conventional sort of romance, should be passionate, driving the lovers into strong emotions of tenderness and despair, evolving into a choking, gooey sentiment that demands compassion for the lovers, from any observer. This romance, is unconventional, in that it does not demand compassion. It almost clinically demolishes the little sympathy that might be evoked on the characters. But still, the under current tone of obsession, (yes, love is an obsession), that always seems to border below the main story line of revenge and hate, touches the reader. It is not a luke warm feeling, it is a thin blanket in the snow – insufficient, yet required. The book made me detest the characters for their self-obsessed nature, their cunning and self-inflicted misery. The hate that forms the tone of emotion, for the major part of the novel, left me slightly dizzy, in terms of the heartlessness and the cruelty of the characters, yet, the clichéd romanticisms did come in the form confessions of their true feelings. The author, should be appreciated for the most natural characterization of the human emotions.

To dissect the characters and their relations is like trying to figure out the starting and ending of a cobweb. Each can be a case study of its own. I am not attempting at that. At this point, I am not sure what I would end up writing in here, I jus thave to free some space in my mind else an OutOfMemoryError is right on its way and a forced shut down is inevitable!

"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."

Despite the deepest emotion Catherine Earnshaw feels towards Heathcliff, the barriers of social class and her own selfish reason to assist Heathcliff to a better social life, away from her brother, who takes pleasure in tormenting and torturing Heathcliff, make her choose Edgar Linton over Heathcliff, there by pushing the world of Heathcliff into hatred and revenge. The martyred reason demolishes her world into insanity, depression and misery, yet this self infliction did not evoke any sympathy towards her. If any, she became a monster who willfully destroyed the one thing that could perhaps have been precious. There were a lot of “what ifs” in this novel for me, but be that as it may, I can only hope that had things been different and had Heathcliff been slightly more virtuous in his approach to life, perhaps, he could have stirred a more softer tone of emotions in me.

Heathcliff, who comes out as a protagonist of the novel does not hold the sympathy of the reader, despite having few brilliant passages that almost pass for passion. Undoubtedly, this is one of the most challenging characterizations I ever read. After hearing that Catherine chose Edgar Linton, he leaves the place only to return after three years, when Catherine welcomes him with unbridled enthusiasm, though her husband is not keen in entertaining the company. However, the visits of Heathcliff become more prominent, to the dismay of Edgar Linton. The consequence of which stirs his sister Isabella’s heart, which portrays Heathcliff to be her prince charming. One such visit forces a confrontation between Heathcliff and Catherine who wishes that he leave Isabella in peace. As the words fly, Nelly, the maid in the house telltales this to Linton. Linton in a fit of fury enters the confrontation of Catherine and Heathcliff and orders Heathcliff off his grounds and to never set foot on his property, ever again. This stirs a rage in Catherine that makes her lock herself in a room and eventually fall sick at the mirthless thoughts that surround her. Her health deteriorates over the period of time and on one occasion when Heathcliff visits her, in the absence of her husband, comes a brilliant exchange that left me choking.

"Oh, Cathy! Oh, my life! how can I bear it?" was the first sentence he uttered, in a tone that did not seek to disguise his despair. And now he stared at her so earnestly that I thought the very intensity of his gaze would bring tears into his eyes; but they burned with anguish: they did not melt."



"Why did you betray your own heart Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. ... You loved me - then what right had you to leave me? Because ... nothing God or satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of you own will, did it. I have not broken your heart - you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine. So much the worse for me that I am strong. Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you - oh God! would you like to live with your soul in the grave? I forgive what you have done to me. I love my murderer - but yours! How can I?"

Catherine never recovers from her illness and dies after giving birth to a girl child.

"Why, she's a liar to the end! Where is she? Not there—not in heaven—not perished—where? Oh! you said you cared nothing for my sufferings! And I pray one prayer—I repeat it till my tongue stiffens—Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living. You said I killed you--haunt me then. The murdered do haunt their murderers. I believe--I know that ghosts have wandered the earth. Be with me always--take any form--drive me mad. Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! It is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!"

Such fierce feelings!!!

Heathcliff teases to be a romantic hero, with his suffering and pain, yet his characterization leaves no doubt that hate is an emotion that shall change the heart to ice, unforgiving and relentless in pursuit of the destruction of the lives, who destroyed his. It is almost sad, to see such strong emotions suppressed in the necessity of his revenge.

Each character in the novel, had their moments of brilliance in their diction, but Heathcliff left me teasing till the very end – one side being so human that my heart went out for him and on the other side, driven by the revenge, his behavior towards the second generation – Catherine’s daughter, his son, his niece was despicable that it made me cringe with the deepest detest. It is like, he is incapable of loving anything purely, apart from that of Catherine. He might be the devil himself, yet the love that he continued to have for her cut through me, continuously. There might have been some remorse in the end, just little, perhaps, to sympathize him, but none, not one morsel of it.

The second generation of Earnshaw, Linton and Heathcliff also forms the major part of the story, with the senior Heathcliff playing havoc on all their lives, significantly influencing each in directions that are not heart warming, but certainly in a way a human determined on revenge would behave. Nothing can support the monstrosity of the actions, yet in some strange way, there is some satisfaction in his suffering too:
"That however which you may suppose the most potent to arrest my imagination, is actually the least – for what is not connected with her to me? and what does not recall her? I cannot look down to this floor, but her features are shaped on the flags! In every cloud, in every tree – filling the air at night, and caught by glimpses in every object, by day I am surrounded with her image! The most ordinary faces of men, and women – my own features mock me with a resemblance. The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her!"

This book took me completely in and left me seething from the inside. It painfully twisted my gut, at every page turn, until I could hold no more, when I forcefully shut the book. What goes around, comes around, but what fault is it of Hareton Earnshaw (son of Hindley Earnshaw), to endure the torment that was unleashed on him? To deliberately scorn an intelligent mind and parade over the charisma of the person, the act itself is filled with such malice that it left me aghast, to say the least. Perhaps it is true that we reap the benefits of everything our parents sow, good or bad! And whose fault is it, that Linton Heathcliff (son of Isabella and Heathcliff) should suffer the torment of his biological father after Isabella’s death.

"He had the hypocrisy to represent a mourner: and previous to following with Hareton, he lifted the unfortunate child on to the table and muttered, with peculiar gusto, 'Now, my bonny lad, you are mine! And we'll see if one tree won't grow as crooked as another, with the same wind to twist it!" That alone promised more torture, the kind that he felt when he entered the castle of Wuthering Heights as an orphan.

I really could not categorize Heathcliff, throughout the novel. If a person could hold a passion, how can he hold such contempt? I think, it has got to do with something about the cause of the rift between Catherine and Heathcliff. That Hindley Earnshaw’s treatment of him as that of a servant than a family member, which drove Catherine to choose Edgar Linton as her husband, put a notion in his head that Hindley was responsible for the separation. And in marrying Catherine, Edgar also rubbed on the wrong side of the coin. Of course, his love for Catherine is eternal, but that does not mean he held any sympathy for her. The convoluted workings of his mind demanded that he be damned so much that at the end of the novel, when he progressed enough to endure the peace in his heart, it made me feel pity.

Gosh, this is gonna stay with me for some time. A deliberate attempt at remembering the convoluted minds. But then, such is the style of writing, that, despite the bravado at attempting to ward off any thoughts on this novel, I seem to go back to it, reading the passages over and over and over, sinking in the words and the motives and the intent. Even in the middle of the night, this torments me to no end. I keep playing this in my mind, questioning the rationale, thinking how it would have been, had the choice been different. Would Catherine sustain her love for Heathcliff, with the family disowning her? Would Heathcliff be strong enough to steady her ship? Somehow, throughout the novel, all the characters were in the back ground. The foreground has always been Heathcliff and his love or hate. Everyone else diminished in comparison. I am still inside this book, unable to form coherent thoughts to jot down.

What can I say, except that if someone makes an attempt at opening this book, it would be hard to put down. Especially if one loves the play of words. The plot, the genre, the setting, the rendition – all are one side, the prose is entirely on the other side, that demands that this be read and re-read and re-read.

I am still not at peace!