The dichotomy of loving Wuthering Heights
Arriving at a favourite book is one of the toughest decisions a bibliophile has to make. I remember having favourites classified by genres, and sub-classified by eras, growing up. Although, I was always aware that the presence of multiple favourites was merely an absence of the laudable experience of one. That is, till I read Wuthering Heights.
Among the seemingly infinite world of literature, there has been no deficit of the written word. Since man was able, documentation and evolution have been in constant tandem. Across the vast spectrum of genera, from a period corroded with patriarchy and injustice, comes a piece of work that gleams with stark reality. Wuthering Heights is not a story for the fainthearted. It is no commercial for the ideal. The theme of the story blooms in barren lands and haunted manors. The weather is infused with a flavour of bitterness and undertones of evil. In fact, the protagonists are wildly controversial with their unapologetic faults as well. The story is stirred in a boiling pot of misery, seasoned with revenge and inevitable deaths.
Take a shallow woman, a woman with narcissism galore, an unruly, arrogant, stubborn woman, a woman who cheats on her unaware husband. An amalgamation of said values points to a woman possessing less than tolerable qualities. History exemplifies women of substance as those having patience, kindness and selflessness. A woman of substance is worthy of love. A woman of substance is desired by multiple eligible suitors. Along comes Catherine. Spoilt, brash, silly Catherine. Catherine is the thriving beacon of this surly story. Catherine has mud on her face and is subject to abuse. Catherine is not a heroine. But plant her in the right environment and her imperfections don’t stand out. Heathcliff is no anomaly in this environment either. Suffering from childhood trauma, riddled with physical abuse and a staunch survival instinct, Heathcliff is another pea in the pod with Catherine. In an era of a happy-mannered Mr Bingley and the pure, kind-natured Jane Bennet, here are two characters that are written to be abhorred.
The story leaps across time with acts of revenge, feats of jealousy and shows of false affection. The only tether joining Catherine and Heathcliff is their bond. An insurmountable, unspoken bond. The only tether tying all these wretched elements in the story together is this bond. The love that the characters share. A love that admits no defeat to the institution of marriage, or the ugly corners of a lover’s soul, or absence over a few years, or even, eventually, death. In a world brimming with hatred and malignant selfishness, blossoms a love that knows no bounds. A love that makes you yearn, a love that doesn’t flourish in a rose-tinted realm, but in downtrodden areas. In neglected, despicable crevices. Wuthering Heights is my favourite story because, for one (of many reasons), the characters aren’t whitewashed to absolute derision. The story makes you believe in a love budding from real, dented characters. It leaves you aching for the peace of a horrid woman. It makes you writhe for the content of a beaten-down man, who loses the love of his existence. The same man who tortures her brother for revenge and traps her husband’s sister in a dead marriage. A man with less to no virtue. And the credit for such powerful writing goes unequivocally to the author.
Of all the pieces of writing I’ve ever read, none has touched me and moved me like this one.
