I just finished listening to Wuthering Heights, having read it only once before, in French, when I was no more than 17 years old. I remembered it as one of my favorite novels but had no recollection whatsoever of the story or its characters. It was with great curiosity that I returned to the Heights and the Grange to rekindle my acquaintance with Heathcliff and Catherine. I wondered how the three decades passed since I had last visited the Moors had altered me and would thus alter my relationship to the novel. Would I be seduced once more by Emily Brontee’s novel?
I cannot say that I enjoyed my second reading of the book yet I am glad to have read it again. It was a long and arduous journey and the company, utterly disagreeable.
Heathcliff may be the most despicable literary character I have ever encountered. Catherine has no qualities to redeem her temper, immaturity, and selfishness. Even Edgar, despite his more kindly nature, hardly gained my favor because of his feeble disposition of mind and body. Each person came with a full set of faults that resulted in misery for themselves and those around them. They all failed to stir my sympathy: Joseph’s hypocritical piety; Isabella’s childish passion; Hareton’s rudeness; Cathy’s spoiled nature and yet, I was invested in their story, I wanted to know their fate. I relished the words and sentences and how they flowed in this ominously dark yet beautifully harmonious melody and all the while, I tried to conjecture what had appealed to my teenage self.
The suffering must have drawn me in then.
My adolescence was tumultuous. Home was no haven and I ended up emancipated at age 16. Love, both parental and romantic, came with lavish doses of pain my young heart could scarcely withstand. My then boyfriend did not respect me, was unfaithful, and even became physically violent once. My young immature mind excused all the inexcusable behaviors with this one word: passion. I must have seen much of Heathcliff in him. In my impressionable naive mind, I dubbed myself his Catherine. Love so intense was destined to produce suffering, this book proved it. I should bear it or die too. Like Catherine, I was surrounded by Edgars willing to cherish and honor me but I rejected them and their kindness which I equated to weakness. Their love did not hurt nor did it arouse excitement or pride in me. I had the body of a woman and the mind of a child, unfit to make decisions of the heart. The turmoil in Wuthering Heights validated my poor choices. If a classic so precisely mirrored my own story was that not proof that all was as it should be, even if it hurt?
Now 45, with the body of a woman and the mind of a woman, married to a man as luminous as Heathcliff and my teenage boyfriend were dark, I have learned many lessons about the workings of the heart which can be summarized in four simple words: Love does not hurt.
It is unlikely that I shall feel the need to visit Wuthering Heights again. I no longer see myself in it. Agony by proxy no longer serves any purpose. Heathcliff, Catherine and Edgar are buried. So are the painful memories of my past. May they all rest in peace.
Thankfully, only a short chapter of my existence resembled the tragic Gothic Novel. At 21, I met my prince charming. We married. Since then my life has turned into a Fairy Tale and we shall live happily ever after.
Cover art by Paul Hogarth OBE.
Such an interesting analysis! And so glad that your life turned out so much better than the novel!
Excellent summary! Thanks for sharing Sarah!
I read Wuthering Heights at age 17 and hated it. I have never wanted to revisit this book, even though I remember very little of the story but my dislike. Thank you for sharing your experience, it feels like permission! I never have to read this book again. Now THAT thought makes me smile.
And yet another brilliant essay! ❤️