art imitates life



It never ceases to knock the breath out of me when I read Wuthering Heights. It's an inner cringe when all your own silly vain flaws are paraded for you in solid print. It never used to be this way. This book I cart with me like a security blanket, some kind of superstitious lucky charm. Once it was all about the sexily broody Heathcliff. My first real crush. I would obsessively read and reread the book. I am currently on my seventh book, having read the six prior till they fell apart in my hands. I realise now I have never thought Heathcliff a villain. That role always fell firmly on the shoulders of Hareton Earnshaw (senior) in my eyes. His cruel and unjust treatment of Heathcliff was always what hurt my heart most. That treatment absolved Heathcliff of any fault in my infatuated eyes. Later, after the blush of youth had faded, when bone shattering heart breaks would send me back to that haven, to Heathcliff, I would see the true horror. The true beast of the story. Where I would see echos of myself, of my ability to wound maliciously, purposely, spitefully. Cathy was a coward. Cathy was cruel. She delighted in manipulating them both, doing so willingly and openly without remorse. She loved them both. In different ways. She tortured them both. In different ways. And she delighted in that pain she could wield. She was poisonous. But at least she was honest about it.

2009-09-11 7:49 p.m.