And whether they wander the moors...

There were certain preconceived notions working against me in reading this book.  Although I was told beforehand that there were no likeable characters within it, I didn't take this to heart.  Heathcliff and Catherine are classic characters, I told myself.  Surely, they have some good qualities, or else why would people carry on about them?

Heathcliff is truly repulsive by the end of this novel, and I found myself relieved when he was dead.  The manner in which he treated Catherine Jr. (the daughter of his romantic interest) was so reprehensible that any sympathy I had for him quickly vanished.  He was selfish and hateful, and no matter how deeply he claimed to love Catherine, to treat her daughter that way was repugnant.  Love for her should have motivated him to help her daughter rather than lash out at her as though she were an extension of her father.  I suppose even in life Catherine did not have the hold over him she supposed she did, or else he would not have married against her wishes.

The part I appreciated about the ending most greatly was the failure to confirm that any such ghosts attended the moors as Catherine Linton and Heathcliff, and in fact such a notion is largely dismissed by the narrator.  Heathcliff desired the grave, and he acquired it, and there he lay quietly as all men do.  To die and be buried beside someone is no sweet reunion.  Far better to spend your time with your loved ones in life and in memory than to wish for death, for there is no guarantee of awakening anew.  I greatly understand his loneliness and regret, but it did not excuse his behavior.

I suppose the final verdict for me in the case of this book is that occasionally it entrusted the story to as many of as three narrators at once, which is excessive.  I did have occasion to look up a few words in this novel, which was luckily considerably shorter than the last I read.  Wuthering, by the by, is a roaring sound, such as made by the wind, which is an apt name for a book with such a setting.

It was a wearying read, which I am relieved to finish.  I liked it fairly well, though I will never read it again so long as it isn't required of me.  It appealed to my own melancholy too greatly.

For my next blog post, I aspire to happier topics.

She begs I let her in, though I dare not

I must say, Emily Bronte has succeeded in manipulating me.  This book is all feeling and little logic, though it provoked me quite well without it.

Imagine me, curled up with my Nook in the lonely darkness of the lake house, scanning the screen and despairing in pity for each of the mad fools Emily has designed.  My mother remarked on what a poor place it was to partake in such literature, but I felt it fitted the purpose of the narrative.  I allowed myself to empathize with the madness of each player in their role.

I understood why Catherine made her choice, though it was certainly a choice in folly.  If she'd only reflected that Heathcliff was most dear to her, she would have spared many people a great deal of misery.  She could have married him, and they would have struggled, but he more than proved there was means for them to survive.  She would still have been mad, but maybe less mad if her protestations were true.  Alas, she elected a more traditional path and doomed them all. 

I pitied Heathcliff the most, though he is monstrous.  He certainly was detestable in his behavior, and here I mean his treatment of his wife and of Hareton.  I don't believe he was meant to be wicked from the start, I think if he'd been treated with kindness after the death of his foster father he might have turned out normal.

I think Hindley's madness caused a great bit of the awfulness in the book, between his drunken rages and his own selfish bitterness about Heathcliff.

And what is with Nelly Dean?  She sits down and tells a totally stranger the whole history of this tragic family of fools.

I'm only about 90% finished with the book.  I've enjoyed it, if enjoyed means allowed it to torment me for several hours.  It has all the tragedy and loss of Gatsby or The Count of Monte Cristo and an additional depth of hopelessness.  At times it gives me pangs of futility.  I must persevere, as I have yet to learn whether the specter at the beginning is truly the dark spirit of Heathcliff's lost love or whether it is merely an apparition resulting from the very sort of late night morbidity in which I am indulging.

I can only hope I do not invite in fearful visions of my own.

Wuthering Heights

Wuthering Heights.  This is one of those books I've never read but my mother has described to me at length.  This song popped up on one of my Spotify stations, and now I'm curious.  I'm putting Wuthering Heights on my reading list.

I want to point out that this video is incredibly creepy in a subtle way.