A story of a divine love struggling futilely to survive in a world made to reject it--love that, like the the wilderness, needs to grow untamed--yet twisted by societal convention, warped by the girdles, the fences, the walls made only to protect. The utter destruction of souls made--but not allowed--to love: a passion that needs suddenly to manifest, wherever and however, as pain that is as vivid and vast as the love that engendered it.
If it must destroy the lover, then it shall also destroy the ones who ended his love.
Love beyond selfish gratification, love that is entirely for and within the beloved; love that wavers not with the passage of time, nor with the growing of distance--that no one can understand, that is so blazingly passionate it appears entirely alien.
Wuthering Heights is brilliant. I find myself wishing these people would continue to live and spin their tale. I swear they breathed while I read, and breathe still in my mind: such is the rage and potence of the love that is told of, that transcends the grave in which it was laid, that seeped out through the layers, and exuded itself through the voice of one and extend into the life of another, and in turn through his voice now colour the life of myself. Only now do I see the merit of the framed narrative...the more voices through which it is passed, the more powerful the story seems; we find ourselves in the place that Mr. Lockwood the narrator found himself once--learning the tale from Nelly the housekeeper, and likewise we listen to the tale through him, and we tell the tale to our friends...and the story extends itself into the living world. The content of the story itself exemplifies its own shattering power in reality; the lines between reality and fiction have never been blurred so seamlessly, into spatial indifference, into timelessness, into universality.
I know it is fiction--yet fiction whose message holds weight in reality, that can effect real changes, or lead us to consider our own lives: that is the true art of fiction, and a book that can create such an effect is an outstanding work indeed. Even a hundred and fifty years from the time it was conceived, time disparity does not seem an issue in suspension of disbelief...while I am reading, that world is as real and present as the true Now, those feelings still the same though time has changed so much else...
Such love has no place in a temporary, forgettable book. Such love in itself brands the tale as a timeless classic. The struggle of nature and of the innate passion of the heart, against a world of convention that loves the normal--the restrained--the ones who maintain a pretence. I am in love with this book.
P.S. fangirlmoment! Yeah I know everyone loves manly men...but manly Heathcliff and the hairy, smelly macho quality about him just aren't for me. I prefer Edgar the feminine blonde-locked to him, but overall in the book, I like the sickly spoilt brat Linton the most>o<
If it must destroy the lover, then it shall also destroy the ones who ended his love.
Love beyond selfish gratification, love that is entirely for and within the beloved; love that wavers not with the passage of time, nor with the growing of distance--that no one can understand, that is so blazingly passionate it appears entirely alien.
Wuthering Heights is brilliant. I find myself wishing these people would continue to live and spin their tale. I swear they breathed while I read, and breathe still in my mind: such is the rage and potence of the love that is told of, that transcends the grave in which it was laid, that seeped out through the layers, and exuded itself through the voice of one and extend into the life of another, and in turn through his voice now colour the life of myself. Only now do I see the merit of the framed narrative...the more voices through which it is passed, the more powerful the story seems; we find ourselves in the place that Mr. Lockwood the narrator found himself once--learning the tale from Nelly the housekeeper, and likewise we listen to the tale through him, and we tell the tale to our friends...and the story extends itself into the living world. The content of the story itself exemplifies its own shattering power in reality; the lines between reality and fiction have never been blurred so seamlessly, into spatial indifference, into timelessness, into universality.
I know it is fiction--yet fiction whose message holds weight in reality, that can effect real changes, or lead us to consider our own lives: that is the true art of fiction, and a book that can create such an effect is an outstanding work indeed. Even a hundred and fifty years from the time it was conceived, time disparity does not seem an issue in suspension of disbelief...while I am reading, that world is as real and present as the true Now, those feelings still the same though time has changed so much else...
Such love has no place in a temporary, forgettable book. Such love in itself brands the tale as a timeless classic. The struggle of nature and of the innate passion of the heart, against a world of convention that loves the normal--the restrained--the ones who maintain a pretence. I am in love with this book.
P.S. fangirlmoment! Yeah I know everyone loves manly men...but manly Heathcliff and the hairy, smelly macho quality about him just aren't for me. I prefer Edgar the feminine blonde-locked to him, but overall in the book, I like the sickly spoilt brat Linton the most>o<
