Splinter, $8.95, ISBN 978-1402787362
Gothic Fiction, 2012 (Reissue)
Wuthering Heights is that beloved classic that most people, in their infinite wisdom, believe to be a romance. How quaint. These same individuals conveniently forget the melodrama that unfolds after the main “romance” sputters to an inglorious end early in the story. Still, I suppose we must give credit where it’s due: this is likely one of the earliest progenitors of the whole “dark, brooding, toxic asshole that loves me” trope that still holds a vice-like grip on the romance and young adult genres today. Bravo, Emily Brontë, you’ve cursed us all.
The premise, for those of you who haven’t been subjected to this literary rollercoaster, is narrated by one Ellen “Nelly” Dean, a housekeeper with a penchant for gossip. She regales Mr Lockwood, the new tenant of a property belonging to the charming Mr Heathcliff, with the sordid tale. Nelly, bless her heart, often injects her judgmental and prudish perspective on the antics of the characters involved. But make no mistake, dear reader, I suspect this gossipy old cow is secretly relishing every moment of the overwrought melodrama. After all, what else is there to do in the moors but indulge in others’ misery?
Now, let us delve into the twisted plot that has captivated readers for generations. Our tale begins when Mr Earnshaw, the patriarch of Wuthering Heights, brings home a mysterious orphan boy named Heathcliff. Young Catherine Earnshaw, initially repulsed by this dark intruder, soon forms an intense bond with him. Their childhood friendship blossoms into a passionate, all-consuming love that defies social norms and common sense alike.
Alas, our dear Catherine, driven by societal expectations and her own vanity, chooses to marry the wealthy Edgar Linton instead. This decision sets in motion a maelstrom of vengeance, obsession, and cruelty that would make even the most sadistic soap opera writer blush. Heathcliff, our brooding anti-hero, disappears for years, only to return as a wealthy man hell-bent on destroying everyone who wronged him. His revenge spreads like a noxious weed, entangling not only Catherine and her husband but also the next generation, including his own son and Catherine’s daughter. It’s a veritable smorgasbord of misery, served with a side of windswept moors and ghostly apparitions.
“I shall think it a dream to-morrow!” she cried. “I shall not be able to believe that I have seen, and touched, and spoken to you once more. And yet, cruel Heathcliff! you don’t deserve this welcome. To be absent and silent for three years, and never to think of me!”
“A little more than you have thought of me,” he murmured. “I heard of your marriage, Cathy, not long since; and, while waiting in the yard below, I meditated this plan—just to have one glimpse of your face, a stare of surprise, perhaps, and pretended pleasure; afterwards settle my score with Hindley; and then prevent the law by doing execution on myself. Your welcome has put these ideas out of my mind; but beware of meeting me with another aspect next time! Nay, you’ll not drive me off again. You were really sorry for me, were you? Well, there was cause. I’ve fought through a bitter life since I last heard your voice; and you must forgive me, for I struggled only for you!”
Now, let me be clear: this is not a love story. At least, not in the conventional sense that would satisfy the masses yearning for saccharine romance. No, Heathcliff and Catherine’s relationship is a masterclass in mutual abuse, a toxic tango where they revel in their hatred for one another as a perverse expression of affection.
“You teach me now how cruel you’ve been—cruel and false. Why did you despise me? Why did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: they’ll blight you—they’ll damn you. You loved me—then what right had you to leave me? What right—answer me—for the poor fancy you felt for Linton? Because misery and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of your 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?”
It’s utterly toxic… and utterly fascinating to follow. Ms Brontë’s descriptive language immerses you in this larger-than-life love-hate relationship in a way that would make even the most melodramatic Bollywood scriptwriter feel woefully inadequate. It’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion, if the train were fueled by passion and the tracks were made of shattered dreams.
“May she wake in torment!” he cried, with frightful vehemence, stamping his foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion. “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 on 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!”
This evocative language extends beyond the central relationship, weaving a tapestry of elegant phrases, vivid local patois, and metaphors so potent they practically leap off the page. Ghosts? Check. Thunderstorms? In abundance. Melancholic moors? As far as the eye can see. The Gothic atmosphere is so thick you could cut it with a knife—assuming you could find one in the perpetual gloom. It’s a haunting ghost story where the only truly haunted things are the feelings of both the characters and the unfortunate reader.
Often forgotten in discussions of this literary gem is the parallel love story between Cathy, Catherine’s daughter, and Hareton, Heathcliff’s son. Both abused by Heathcliff, they eventually find solace and love with each other. Of course, you can hardly blame people for forgetting these two; they’re about as well-defined as a watercolor painting left out in one of those ubiquitous moor rainstorms. Still, they serve to show what Catherine and Heathcliff might have been under different circumstances—boring, probably.
In the end, Wuthering Heights is an unforgettable tale of a destructive, dysfunctional family that treats moderation like a disease to be avoided at all costs. You read it once, and it sears itself into your memory. You read it thrice, and you find yourself craving more, like a literary masochist. Emily Brontë reigns supreme as the queen of lurid, melodramatic family soap operas, and even today, Wuthering Heights continues to capture imaginations—for good reason. It’s the literary equivalent of a rollercoaster built by a madman: terrifying, exhilarating, and leaving you slightly nauseous but oddly eager for another go.
A word of advice: skip all live-action remakes and musicals. They always fall short of doing this story justice, much like attempting to recreate a tempest in a teacup. Some storms, dear reader, are best left on the page.
