He's More Myself Than I Am

I keep having this overwhelming desire to read “Wuthering Heights” again. I’ve already read it twice, and the last time wasn’t even a year ago.

The funny thing is that it isn’t even my favorite book. I’m not even sure if I even really like it.

Let’s face it, Heathcliff is a jerk. He’s tyrannical, cruel, heartless, and sometimes downright evil. He’s no Mr. Darcy, there is very little real romance between him and Catherine, and he just isn’t a very relatable character (unless, of course, you find yourself to be as equally heartless and cruel as he is).

And then, *sigh* there is Catherine. She and Heathcliff deserve each other. She is just as mean, cold-hearted, and unfeeling as he is, sometimes more so. She doesn’t deserve Edgar. He may be spoiled and a coward, but he is not a bad guy. Catherine on the other hand, is just one big, beautiful ball of misery.

And outside of the characters, we don’t even have a very nice setting. Let’s face it, the wind at this place “wuthers.” From the way it’s described in the book, that’s not altogether a very nice, comforting sound, but rather kind of haunting. In fact, Wuthering Heights is a very desolate, cold, unforgiving sort of location. Even the house falls into disrepair until it appears like it should be condemned.

Over all, there are few lovable characters, almost no comforting, “warm and fuzzy” moments, little romance, and very inhospitable settings. So why do I love it so much? I don’t. Yet, I keep coming back to it.

I think that the draw for me is the haunting atmosphere of the first few chapters where Catherine’s ghost haunts the manor, the way Heathcliff’s devotion to Catherine remains long after her death, and their undying love for each other. I love the idea that two people can love each other so intensely that they love past all the anger, past all of each other’s hideous faults, past the problems and the pain, past never actually being able to be together because society said it was wrong.

Sometimes when I read it, it makes me feel better about my own life and the relationships that I have, because none of them are nearly as messed up as Heathcliff and Catherine’s. Yet, there is another part of me that desires a love with that kind of devotion. What they had extended past distance, time, and all other obstructions. I know it’s just a book, but I too want to be with the one who is “more myself than I am.”