Perhaps this makes me a "bad" reader and lover of literature, but I haven't read anything by Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë, or Emily Brontë.
Yes, their work is monumental in the English literary canon. Yes, they are classics. But their work just never seemed quite my style. I'm not big on drama and high-class romance, which is (though this may be utterly incorrect) what I think of when I think of these three authors. So their work has never been at the top of my "To Read Next" list - I kept putting them off. But I finally buckled down and read Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë.
I wasn't excited, but I was a bit hopeful. I thought, Maybe I'll get what everyone's talking about once I actually read it. A quarter of the way through, though, I abandoned this thought. I didn't hate the book, but I didn't like it, either. It ended up being what I expected: a capstone of Romantic literature. It's stylistically decent and has interesting characters, but the plot centered is on love triangles and petty grievances and the structure leaves much to be desired.
Heathcliff is one of those literary giants who at some point crosses the threshold into the general consciousness. I knew nothing about Wuthering Heights before reading it, but I did know of Heathcliff. From the general knowledge I'd gained somewhere, I knew him to be a romantic figure, the person everyone wanted the girl to be with, but who failed nevertheless and was a brooding, yet kind man for it.
Maybe the wrong information permeated my consciousness somehow, but Heathcliff was not the hero I was expecting. He was detestable, and I'm not sure why his name carries such an aura of romance about it (and what does that say about our culture?).
Yes, he is desperately in love with Cathy and can love no other. Yes, he's haunted by her figure. Yes, he'd die happily for her. But he's cruel, toxic, and abusive to every character in the novel. Cathy herself isn't much better. And even in the next generations, with Linton Heathcliff and Catherine Linton, the same toxicity is carried over, the same manipulations and running to and fro, with dramatic illness, contrived defiance, and dramatic screaming.
The structure of the tale is also a bit confusing. The housekeeper, Ellen "Nelly" Dean is relating it all to a house guest who is mildly interested in young Catherine. While this gives us great insight into Nelly's character and us a reason to tell the tale, it provides no substantial "stake" in relating the information. As readers, we care very little for the house guest, and I wonder why this story couldn't have been told in real time.
(Trying to end on a positive note:) This novel is very much of its time. I'm glad I read it, but it wasn't for me.
4/10 📕