Novel – 290 pages – my copy (paperback; 1975) bought for 1.20 from one of the many charity shops in Liskeard, late 2008
- 5 nods
Ever heard the one about the reader who picks up a much hailed classic of a novel, to trawl through its musty, dusty pages, only to find it hard to read and bored to the point of tears. The ending to this story sees the book being packaged into a box headed for the nearest charity shop; only ten pages in and never to be opened again.
It is a story often repeated. And when I bought this book three years ago my intention was to finish off where I left off two years earlier sometime in 2006. Again, I made no headway. A problem with Wuthering Heights was the heavy imagery I carried with me: there were TV adaptations of the dashing and dark Heathcliff, there was the cold moor imagery of "up, that there North"; and, of course, there was Kate Bush’s ‘Cathy, I’ve come here, I’ve come home, oh oh oh, open up your window-oh!’.
But allow me to put the record straight here. This is a classic to be read and devoured. Sure, on the surface it has the feel of a BBC costume drama in-waiting; however, the dark undertones make this a psychological page turner. Not so much a love story, but rather an anti-love story. There is passion, there is death, there are lies and there is redemption.
The characters are strong and colourful throughout, from the housekeeper Nelly to Isabella Linton. Although one of the chief narrators, Mr Lockwood, is pale in comparison, the novel’s narrative techniques keep the book alive; the reader always asking how and why. Most of which questions revolve around the enigma that is trapped inside a riddle himself: Heathcliff. Brooding, dark and mysterious; yet not the typical male love interest. He is vengeful, mean and deadly dangerous. His eventual downfall is debatable; is it the rights cancelling the wrongs? Or rather Bronte’s submission to the happy ending cliché?
Yet disregarding this, Wuthering Heights is a stunning achievement. Without wanting to add my applause to the history of patronising comments, it is all the more remarkable coming from the pen of an insular female, rather than a person of world experience. The Brontes are everywhere celebrated, but let’s make this clear: Wuthering Heights is far inferior to the likes of the stuffy Jane Eyre or any of sister Anne's attempts. A Queen among greats; indeed, buy, beg or borrow a copy today.
