Wuthering Heights
by Emily Brontë
Dear Miss Brontë,
 |
| Lady Hamilton as Catherine |
I've just re-read your novel Wuthering Heights. It brought back fond memories and fresh
thoughts.
Flipping through only a few pages this time, I was much
surprised by how complicated the cultural setting and the vocabulary were. I
wondered aloud how I could possibly have gone through it decades ago.
Wuthering Heights was one of the first books I had ever read
in English and one of the very few that "possessed" me during reading
and long after (looking back now, I think I only had similar mental experience
with One Hundred Years of Solitude): haunting, fatalistic and other-worldly. I
was probably in my third year in college and my command of English was
rudimentary. And I knew nothing of the English culture. Reading original works
of literature was like adventures I urged myself onto, as poorly equipped as I
was. Even the standard paperbacks looked decidedly strange and foreign, with
paper edges colored rusty red, mustard yellow or dirty green: our Chinese books
might have been printed on worse papers but they felt "normal". So I
do not know how I could have comprehended enough to be enthralled in your book,
with its drama and emotional intensity and with images of Catherine and
Heathcliff desperately searching each other through the window imprinted in my
heart forever. Miss Brontë, the magic you had invested in your writing bridged
across the huge gulf of cultural divide.
My reading was quite different this time around. Even though
I no longer remembered many details, I was still able to anticipate most of the
events, so the thrill was gone. Instead I was able to understand the story and
the characters as if for the first time. I've now realized that your book
illustrated, with glaring clarity, what first love truly is: the ultimate
compulsive and all-consuming action of possessing someone else for one's own
intense craving. It's not that much different from hunger, a craving bordering
on destruction of the object. Catherine died and Heathcliff became so sinister
because their hunger for love was never gratified -- one could say, in essence,
they were starved to death. Their case seemed extreme, but in real life, many
people suffer in the same way. For example, in traditional societies like China
when I grew up, where love was not a factor for people mating for life and
where one's emotional development was constrained by strict strict social
norms, people tend to be possessive and clutch whatever little they have, heart
or body of the one person they have fixed their relentless energy on, forever,
just like Heathcliff - it's faithful love on surface but a desperation and
arrested growth in truth. Small wonder he became a force of destruction, to
himself and others.
A healthier love life was depicted in the younger Cathy, who
loved one, out-grew him and went on to love someone else. The latter
"love" was more serene and more fitting what "true love" is
supposed to be: giving instead of possessing and taking pleasure in the other's
happiness. It is a more modern way of how people experience love and emotional
growth. And with emotional maturity, people become generous, not only to each
other, but also to family and friends. Cathy's story reminded me of my own
tumultuous youth and slowly more settled life afterwards. But Miss Brontë, it's
startling that you would have had such insight when you wrote the stories in
your late twenties, barely an adult nowadays.
With many more years of reading, I couldn't help but also
paid attention to your writing techniques. I recognized the so-called
"double framing" quickly and was a little skeptical how your could
pull it off convincingly with such a nuanced way of story telling. But it
worked marvelously. The stories were mostly narrated by a faithful servant,
Miss Nelly Dean, who witnessed pretty much everything. She also served the
function of providing the conventional moral judgement and justifications for
the more incredible actions of the characters. With her, readers are able to
hold onto their own moral prejudices but also develop sufficient sympathy to
the otherwise rather fatally flawed characters. And she was further
supplemented by the more removed and even more critical narrator, Mr. Lockwood.
Very clever, Miss Brontë!
Of course it's impossible for any reader not to compare you
with Charlotte, or more specifically in my case, comparing Wuthering Heights
with Jane Eyre, which I had also re-read in recent years and loved it more. My
guess is that avid bookworms would always place Wuthering Heights higher for
the sheer reading experience, especially if reading it for the first time. I
also think your writing is more sophisticated and merits a thorough
psychological analysis: your characters are fundamental, almost like various
basic motifs of human traits, like love, hatred, jealousy and loyalty. Jane
Eyre, on the other hand, has a charming simplicity and is more worldly. It won me over in particular with its warm and
endearing description of friendships among women, Helen Burns in her youth, and
Diana and Mary in later years. Again this is me of older age reading, when
romantic love is no longer the focus of my thought and other details in the
books suddenly emerged. In short, I love you both and am forever grateful that
your books have so much enriched my life.
Miss Brontë, I was inspired to re-read your book and wrote
this letter because I just read a lovely one written by a friend's daughter.
Wuthering Heights has connected us in such a special way. Thank you!
Warm regards,
lg
