Wuthering Heights

More than 150 years after its original publication I saw the book in my mother’s hand. I longed to grow up enough to read it. Finally one summer holiday, in a secluded shady spot in my grandparent’s garden I sat on a stone bench and read a novel that would remain with me throughout my life.

I reread it recently, having gotten tempted while I was researching about the archetype Byronic hero. The pull remains still as strong, the feelings that arise within still as chaotic. When you read a classic the world around becomes pale in comparison. In this book the prose flows like poetry. The imagery, vivid and personal, transports you to a timeless infinite space. The landscape itself becomes as strong a presence as any of the characters. I have not even studied literature formally and am no way adept to critique, but I am a reader who is moved by this tale and a writer desirous of sharing this experience with all.

“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.”

Read more in writersbrew.com, the website I have started with my friend, Indi di, the one I have mentioned here numeruous times before.