Wuthering Heights — a tragedy of tragedies
“He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”
I am not the kind to write a review about a book right after I read it. And most definitely not one who’d do so by publishing it in a place like this. But this book has moved me so much, in more ways than I knew to be possible, so I had to write about it. Somewhere, anywhere.
Ever since I’ve heard of the classic ‘Wuthering Heights’ there had always been a vague sense of curiosity mingled with a little despair in my mind. Despair because something in me always connected the title with impending doom and curiosity because I’ve heard that the author ‘Emily Bronte’ was deemed to be insane when the book was published back in 1847.
Now that I’ve read the book, I can safely say that I do not question Emily Bronte’s sanity like the rest of her readers but I do question my own. To a point where it rattled my foundations of love and relationships. Of truth and evil. Of death and departure. Of regret and the very thing that burnt the hero of this book — Revenge.
I’ve always believed that humans are full of contradictions. We say what we do not mean and we do what we do not say. But even in our most chaotic unrefined decisions, there is a thread of humanity no matter how thin, that binds us all together. At least that was what I thought until I got a glimpse of Heathcliff.
The word ‘Hero’ is just an allegorical term used to represent who Heathcliff is in Wuthering heights. Otherwise, I would never in a million years call Heathcliff a hero. And rightly so. At the beginning of the journey, I had sympathy for him. And love. Much so compared to what I felt for everyone else in the tale. There was a part of me that understood how much of an outcast one can be in their own home. There was a part of me that understood how Heathcliff found his home in Catherine rather than under the very roof where he was not given enough love to satisfy his needs.
I wept when he expressed his doubts to Nelly about how he wished he was Edgar rather than embracing himself. And I get it, somewhere down the lane we all do. In the spiritual realm, there is a place called ‘I wish I were someone else’ and we’ve all been there at least once. And Heathcliff is a resident of this place. And why wouldn’t he be? Cathy has chosen someone else over him. Granted that it hurt her to do so and I will elaborate more on her decision later. Regardless, considering how Heathcliff loved Cathy more than he loved himself, it must’ve hurt him the most.
I can’t help but add here that Heathcliff would’ve stopped his own heart if it meant Cathy’s would last longer. Having said that, that was the Heathcliff who died the day he heard Cathy confiding in Nelly about how even though she loves Heathcliff, she could not marry him as he has fallen in the eyes of the people around her.
What good is her love when the person it’s directed at does not even feel loved anymore? For this broke a part of Heathcliff beyond repair and the one who rose from the ashes was not Heathcliff anymore. He looked like Heathcliff. He sure did seem like the Heathcliff we all came to love, but this person who returned was just a shell of who he used to be. Maybe because the new Heathcliff had revenge etched in every atom of his veins and all the words he never said burnt his throat to a point where now he only spits fire. But is that alright?
I admit I do not completely know what losing somebody feels like. But I do know that turning into a cold-blooded monster and hating everything around you is most definitely not an option. Heathcliff did just that.
Heathcliff was hell-bent on ruining the people that competed for his lover’s love not knowing that this will not return their share of love to him. I wish somebody told him that if you were a choice, to begin with, nothing would make you the choice to end with.
To see Heathcliff lose his senses and humanity slowly and then all at once was the real tragedy of Wuthering heights. A lot of people here died young, but a lot of people broke young too. Cathy is the first one on the list.
“Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living. You said I killed you–haunt me then. The murdered do haunt their murderers. I believe–I know that ghosts have wandered the earth.”
Catherine was a tragedy so well written that I had to pause now and then to understand how someone’s mind could breed so much chaos. And what was more alarmingly baffling was that I related to every bit of her tantrums and how being so in it had frozen her out of it all. After all, our unstable minds have knocked the best of us when we weren’t paying attention. Did they not?
When Catherine confessed to Nelly about how she felt for Edgar Linton and Heathcliff, I had tears in my eyes. I never for the life of me understood how there could be types in how you love a person until Catherine said it out loud. There is nothing wrong with choosing the one that you love, no matter how temporary but doing it by hurting somebody else, although you claim you have his best interests at heart is not something I’d accept as reasonable. Tragic? yes. Understandable? No.
“If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it. My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.”
Maybe I am wrong in pointing fingers at Heathcliff and Catherine. Maybe there is no right way to love a person. Maybe losing somebody more you than yourself does evil things to a person that’s beyond our comprehension. And just maybe Wuthering heights was doomed right from the start, stuck in the past. We’ll never know.
As I said, there are way too many contradictions and too many misplaced raw emotions in this book. If there’s anything I’ve concluded and taken to heart from this, it’s that words are more human than humans could ever be and if you ever consider choosing between me and somebody else. Do not choose me.
I promise you I am no Heathcliff and I will not tear your roof down in the name of revenge. I assure you I am no Catherine either for I will not let you question your worth in my life in the name of love. If you think about it long enough, you’ll know that there is a part of Wuthering heights in all of our minds and when it’s finally time to choose or to be chosen just know that you did exist and they’ve lost you.
All in all, if I ever wanted to write something gut-wrenchingly tragic, I won’t. I’ll simply re-read Wuthering heights.
~ S.R
