I will be the first to admit that it is a bit of a shame that I was in my 30s before I really sat down to read the epic that is Wuthering Heights. I have long been obsessed with period literature and, of course, I have done extensive work in the era of Gothic literature of all kinds. This is one that, somehow, repeatedly slipped out of my grasp, though.
With the upcoming release of the newest cinematic version of the film in all it’s Hollywood hyper-sexed looking glory, I felt it was high time to rectify that mistake. I have owned a copy of the book for a while, discovered sometime last year (or earlier) in my thrifting missions, so I dug it out and dove in around the first of the month.
I was immediately drawn in by Bronte’s writing, the dark moors and the brusque mannerisms of our good master Heathcliff bringing me immediately into the fold. Not knowing fully what to expect, the reading went fairly quickly, but I want to be very up front in saying that I found it very difficult to like … well … pretty much anyone.
From Catherine’s ever-eager and dismissively bratty nature, to Heathcliff’s very embodiment of toxic masculinity and downright brutish human evil, there was no one I could root for here. The love itself that both of them felt was one of the most powerful of literary sentiments I have read in quite some time, of course. Bronte did an amazing job of putting two unlikeable people into a situation where neither of them could win for causing each other, and themselves, to lose. Catherine’s affirmation that she could not exist without Healthcliff, despite his brutish nature and his downright blatant insistence that his own pride was more important than being there with and for her for years is intense, but also shows a lot of what is wrong with the classic literary depiction of love.
All too often in books (as well as films and, let’s face it, life itself) our female lead is drawn into a sort of infatuation with a person who is simply garbage. Why it becomes a sort of romantic rampart that women (or anyone) should cast themselves upon the blade of someone who treats them horribly, I can not fathom. It is not a good quality in a lover or a significant other that every time you speak to them it becomes a fight where you grow so faint your heart threatens to stop. Yet, time and time again, this is the standard literary love is held to. Why?
To turn in a different direction before this post takes on a life of its own filled with lectures no one wants, let me jump into Bronte’s language. It was, of course, nearly 200 years ago, but one thing that did throw me off was her repeated leaps into Joseph’s brogue. Vernacular is wonderful, and it should be held to a high standard in writing, but it does not have to be done quite to that extent. As I said, I know it was 200 years ago, but that is something that pulled from the story a lot. Any time there was an extended bit of dialogue from Joseph, or, rather, Ellen’s repetition of it, the use of heavy vernacular and nearly unintelligible language on the page made me pause several times to work out what was being said. Could it have been any different for readers when the book was fresh?
As I said, vernacular is incredibly important, and I use it myself. I understand how nice it is for readers of Southern literature to recognize a nice twang on the page, or for a Cockney reader to recognize their own twists of phrase, but for entire paragraphs to look so out of place? It was a certain grounder for me.
The story itself, coming to us in the form of a relay from our narrator who had it in turn relayed to him from someone who lived it or read it, was honestly like a bit of a telephone game. In its own right, that puts me in the mind of a bit of a potential unreliable narrator. I am a bit of a sucker for an unreliable narrator, as many of you know, so I do eat that up. With Lockwood admitting that he was feverish during much of the retelling (as well as the general malaise of being in a strange house during a winter storm in his initial “supernatural” encounter with Catherine), there is much to be said about the entire story being false or blown out of proportion. I am aware that, of course, would likely not be much of a popular opinion given the historic love of the book, but the idea that this man had a polite old housemaid telling him a story of her former masters – or even a story that she herself makes up to calm a sick man – and he blew it even further out of proportion in his retelling makes me absolutely salivate to think of.
Heathcliff. There is so much I can say about the man whom this book centers around. From a wayward youth who never quite fits in, to a man who does his best to seem the devil’s own plaything in adulthood, he oozes toxic behavior. I would say toxic masculinity, but I don’t think even Heathcliff fits quite that pathetic of a bill. He has a huge chip on his shoulder through most of the book, being more than willing to spite anyone and everyone, including his beloved Catherine, no matter what they are doing or saying to or about him. No one is good enough for him, because they make him feel he is not good enough for them more often than not. Granted, this does not excuse his behavior in any way. For, if nothing else, being treated poorly by others should show him exactly how NOT to act, but I digress.
As I said earlier, even his precious Cathy is not free from the evil Heathcliff works in the world, from his abandonment of her, to his overbearing weight of hatred that comes to Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange on his mysterious return. Heathcliff is not necessarily deserving of the pain and mistreatment he is given as a lad, but he absolutely deserves every ounce of pain and punishment rendered him as an adult. To his treatment of Cathy even on her deathbed, to the way he mistreats Isabella (not even mentioning the underlying insinuations of SA and who knows what other abuse she suffers at his hand before her escape), and the way he treats every single young person in the book, he is simply an asshole. Plain and simple. King jerk of the world of jerks. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy him. He has his moments, not withstanding. Specifically his unknown background and the fact that he does somehow feel Catherine’s spirit close to him after her death. From wandering on the moors, to frequenting graveyards at night, there are redeeming elements of creep factor that I do appreciate.
Jumping on to the discussion of Catherine herself, the fact that her love was not strong enough for her to stand up for Heathcliff as a child. Or wait for him. Or look for him. Or ask her husband not to be an ass to him. Or any of the other things she could have done that might also have altered the evil man’s own reaction to the world and the people around him… it was somehow strong enough that she haunted his every moment and made him all the more miserable and sanctimonious after her death – even seemingly showing up to visually haunt him on his last day. She herself was always the prissy, bratty, horrible example of a spoiled child who refuses to budge for the world, but expects the world to bend and break for her, so it is no wonder she got her just desserts. I feel no sympathy for her, frankly.
Finally, coming full circle, the main thing I want to say is that I did enjoy the book. Despite my misgivings of the characters, the hyped up love, the disgusting character development and the painful language… It’s a book I will likely read again. While, I recognize that most high school readers would likely care nothing for the book, I do hope that I can fit it into a college course on Gothic Literature one day. Overall, the book stands the test of time in many ways, and is definitely deserving of study. I don’t know that I agree with the claims that it depicts the love story that all other love stories should be built from, but I can respect the care Heathcliff and Cathy had for each other. Maybe they just needed someone to tell them how to show it.
