Wuthering Heights

A review of Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë  

Kiran Fane

Wuthering Heights is my first foray into the works of Emily Brontë and, by the impression it made on me, will certainly not be the last. Though the character’s personalities, by design, ranged from unlikable to downright contemptible, the story itself will keep one turning the page to discover what fresh new indecency they will next inflict upon one another. I dare say any who enjoy watching the self-destructive behaviors of reality television would have little cause for boredom while reading this novel. The Heights to which Heathcliff’s pettiness will ascend are, after all, practically Wurthering. If you are somehow still here, let us begin.

It’s always sunny in Wuthering Heights. Every person is, almost without fail, terribly reprehensible. Paradoxically this is one of the few classics where I have not felt the need to apologize to the modern reader for its antiquated thoughts or words, save for one glaring exception. The book makes liberal use of an offensive word to describe Heathcliff’s Romani heritage, but as the word is sadly still used by many to this day, I can not, in fairness, claim the modern reader would take as much umbrage to it as they perhaps should. The classism and elitism inherent in a system of “masters” and “servants” is, of course, abundantly present, but in comparison to many other works of the time it is positively gentle. Though it is no real mark against the work, I can not help but feel it is almost a missed opportunity that Wuthering Heights is not, explicitly, a ghost story. An early interaction with the ghost of a child, which may have been little more than a frightful dream brought on by an abundance of nerves, is far more chilling than many other “horror” stories of the time.

Brontë’s prose is characterized by a technical perfection that comes across in the most “proper” of sentences. This propriety lends itself well to the air of indignant uprightness present in the characters. When a character is crude or indecorous, the prose falls to their level and is in rather stark contrast to the surrounding persons and their speech. The prose can feel, at times, a little “too technical”, but this technical correctness in no way comes between the author and her art. Within the novel lines abound that are so beautifully written I would count them among those rare few that give true pleasure in their reading. It is only right to add that any not well versed in the “broad Yorkshire” dialect may find themselves despairing, as I did, to read many of Joseph’s lines. 

The atmosphere of the desolate Yorkshire Moors is so well represented in Wuthering Heights that it would be a disservice to call it merely “a character in its own right”. The Moors are an ever-presence, at once isolating and  foreboding, but filled with patches of fleeting sunlight and the beautiful songs of lapwings and hedge sparrows. In this way the setting of the book becomes not just a character, but a reflection of all the characters who inhabit it and of the story as a whole. The only thing that I feel lets down the atmosphere in any measure is the structure of the story. In the convention of a tale told after the fact, some sense of isolation is lost, though a paltry sum at that, to the knowledge that our narrator is speaking from a place where they have come out of whatever loneliness is being discussed.

As previously stated, the characters that make up the cast of Brontë’s Wuthering Heights are, on the whole, terribly flawed and imperfect beings. By their failings they are rendered real and relatable, but by their excess of spite they are transformed into something, at once, absurdly monstrous yet supremely entertaining. One can not resist, at times, laughing at Heathcliff’s cruel, unfiltered disdain delivered while standing directly before the subject of his scorn. I felt a special note is warranted here to discuss my opinions of Joseph, the Heights most senior, most pious, and most cantankerous occupant. I at first dismissed his ready submission to whatever master might command the home as meant to be indicative of a weak character or one primed by his faith to supplicate himself before his “betters”. But, by the end of the story, and by no clear indication that I can point to, I found myself wondering if Joseph was not, in fact, a lesson from Brontë that the loyalty of a man so easily bought is never truly held.

The plot of Wuthering Heights can be summarized as: How low will one man sink in the name of petty and vindictive spite. As the story progresses however, one inevitably is forced to expand that opinion to how low one CAN sink. Heathcliff’s quest for vengeance against a rival whose crimes against him amounts to little more than being a loving, if inadequate, husband, leads him further and further down his all-consuming path until there is nothing left. At many points in my reading I found myself incredulous at how Heathcliff might top his most recent devious and inordinate offense. This parade of wrongdoings is, to be certain, quite entertaining and pulls the reader along at a fair clip.

In closing I will re-affirm that Wuthering Heights is a tale of tragic romance and human failings with just enough hints of hope and happiness to ensure its place amongst the classics is well-earned. I hesitate to put thoughts into Brontë’s mind, but there are glimmers of hope and joy throughout the story that feel almost as if the writer herself paused in her work and said: “I think this is sad enough actually.” or “perhaps I’ve put this poor loving husband and father through enough.”. These small concessions to human decency are something I appreciate both as a writer and as a person. The heaviness of the tale will anchor me from rushing too quickly into my next Brontë work, but the quality of it ensures my delay shall not be long.