Until recently, I had purposefully avoided Wuthering Heights, even neglecting to read it as a set text at university. I had always imagined it to be trite, overblown romantic nonsense. However, this was a petty prejudice, one now overcome and repented of. As mentioned in the preface to the Penguin edition, Hollywood has been responsible for the book’s common misrepresentation in modern culture as nothing more than a bodice-ripping love fest. Cynics can be assured that it is no such thing. Indeed, the very genre itself defied all my expectations. Exceedingly dark, classically Byronesque in its Gothicness, saturated in violence and toying with some very unsavoury taboos, Brontë’s rustic tale of unnatural obsession shocked, surprised, and delighted beyond all measures.
The novel is split into two volumes; part one deals with the relations between the Earnshaw and Linton families, whilst the second part focuses on their offspring, therefore spanning two generations. The frame narrative of Mr Lockwood introduces the reader to the memorable location on the barren Yorkshire moors and sets the cruel tone of the novel with plenty of sinister foreshadowing. The story of Heathcliff’s history is narrated via the classic tale within a tale, related by the domestic servant Nelly Dean. Now and again the structure wanders back to the frame narrative, and towards the end of the novel, when Mrs Dean is finished, the events continue in present time. There are also some moments when there is a tale within a tale within a tale, causing one to question the reliability of the narrators and allowing freer interpretation of characters. It makes for an ingenuous, if somewhat contrived method of storytelling.
A large portion of the book is naturally centred on the relationship between Heathcliff and Cathy, but in my opinion, these sections were the least interesting. The theme of love is completely overshadowed by that of hatred; not only passive hatred, but passionate, burning, active hatred. There are no agreeable or likeable characters; everyone despises one another in their almost completely isolated ‘community’, thus brewing the bitterness, strife and antagonism to explosive potency. This occasionally makes for some darkly humorous banter between the characters, laden with vile curses and outbursts of murderous intentions. There was never a more dysfunctional family than that which resided at the household of Wuthering Heights. Thrushcross Grange, estate of the civilised and cultivated Lintons, provides the mirror opposite of the Heights. Whilst the Lintons are depicted as genteel and effeminate, they are also spoilt and proud, rendering them just as disagreeable to the reader. One finds it difficult to sympathise with any of Brontë‘s creations.
The inability to identify with the characters does not subtract from one's enjoyment of the text. The plot events themselves are interesting and engaging enough to keep the pages turning and the sheer savage animosity throughout provides a welcome vessel of humour. Elements of the supernatural create an atmosphere of intense unease and foreboding, one which lasts right through to the hauntingly ambiguous ending. Heathcliff’s origins remain a complete mystery; his sadistic, nocturnal nature prompting Nelly to suspect him of being a demon or vampire. He is relentless in his cruelty towards others, whilst brooding on his love for Cathy to the point of insanity. If Goethe’s lovesick Werther were ever to spawn an evil anima - Heathcliff would be it. Even Catherine herself claims he is ‘…an unreclaimed creature, without refinement, without cultivation: an arid wilderness of furze and whinstone.’ It is his character who drives the narrative forward and forms the locus of the tale. It is tempting to read Heathcliff as a tragic hero, but his flaws are too numerous and great, his character too complex and his very identity at odds with everything stable and fixed. In short, he remains an aberration of literature; the personification of the id itself.
Rating: 4/5
The novel is split into two volumes; part one deals with the relations between the Earnshaw and Linton families, whilst the second part focuses on their offspring, therefore spanning two generations. The frame narrative of Mr Lockwood introduces the reader to the memorable location on the barren Yorkshire moors and sets the cruel tone of the novel with plenty of sinister foreshadowing. The story of Heathcliff’s history is narrated via the classic tale within a tale, related by the domestic servant Nelly Dean. Now and again the structure wanders back to the frame narrative, and towards the end of the novel, when Mrs Dean is finished, the events continue in present time. There are also some moments when there is a tale within a tale within a tale, causing one to question the reliability of the narrators and allowing freer interpretation of characters. It makes for an ingenuous, if somewhat contrived method of storytelling.
A large portion of the book is naturally centred on the relationship between Heathcliff and Cathy, but in my opinion, these sections were the least interesting. The theme of love is completely overshadowed by that of hatred; not only passive hatred, but passionate, burning, active hatred. There are no agreeable or likeable characters; everyone despises one another in their almost completely isolated ‘community’, thus brewing the bitterness, strife and antagonism to explosive potency. This occasionally makes for some darkly humorous banter between the characters, laden with vile curses and outbursts of murderous intentions. There was never a more dysfunctional family than that which resided at the household of Wuthering Heights. Thrushcross Grange, estate of the civilised and cultivated Lintons, provides the mirror opposite of the Heights. Whilst the Lintons are depicted as genteel and effeminate, they are also spoilt and proud, rendering them just as disagreeable to the reader. One finds it difficult to sympathise with any of Brontë‘s creations.
The inability to identify with the characters does not subtract from one's enjoyment of the text. The plot events themselves are interesting and engaging enough to keep the pages turning and the sheer savage animosity throughout provides a welcome vessel of humour. Elements of the supernatural create an atmosphere of intense unease and foreboding, one which lasts right through to the hauntingly ambiguous ending. Heathcliff’s origins remain a complete mystery; his sadistic, nocturnal nature prompting Nelly to suspect him of being a demon or vampire. He is relentless in his cruelty towards others, whilst brooding on his love for Cathy to the point of insanity. If Goethe’s lovesick Werther were ever to spawn an evil anima - Heathcliff would be it. Even Catherine herself claims he is ‘…an unreclaimed creature, without refinement, without cultivation: an arid wilderness of furze and whinstone.’ It is his character who drives the narrative forward and forms the locus of the tale. It is tempting to read Heathcliff as a tragic hero, but his flaws are too numerous and great, his character too complex and his very identity at odds with everything stable and fixed. In short, he remains an aberration of literature; the personification of the id itself.
Rating: 4/5
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