Withering interest

Nearly 21 years ago I was assigned to read Wuthering Heights in my sophomore AP English class.  I think I may have read three chapters.  It was all I could take.  I have no idea how I managed the chapter quizzes and final test on the book.  Maybe I failed them. 

Ever since, this title has rested on a dusty shelf in my mind labeled "To Read."  This past Christmas, a paperback copy was wrapped and under the tree with a tag addressed to "Mina."  I anxiously began.

Last Thursday night, I finished.

It's important to note that I often get through a novel in 2 or 3 days, depending on how much I like the book and how much time I can steal from my other responsibilities at the moment.  Lately, I've been able to steal a fair amount of time.  Since starting Heights, I've read The Host, Spires of Stone, The Friday Night Knitting Club, Tower of Strength (which I reviewed here), the entire Twilight series for the second time, and the Midnight Sun partial draft.  I also moved, I felted two purses, I sewed two dresses and guided the sewing of another dress.  However, anytime I'd pick up Wuthering Heights, and I'd fall asleep after a chapter or two.

How do I hate thee, Wuthering Heights?  Let me count [a few of] the ways ...

I dislike the multiple narrators.  Mr. Lockwood, to whom the story is being related by Nelly the servant, seems entirely extraneous.  I see that his existance just provides a platform for the telling of the tale, but I think it's too much.  It's even a little consfusing at times when Nelly is describing accounts given to her by yet other characters.

The main characters, Heathcliff and Catherine, are anti-heros.  They are in love, but their insanely bad behavior and selfishness not only destroys their lives but the lives of most all around them as well.  I read a piece on this book that claimed that this was a more true to life situation than the typical love story with a happy ending.  Well, happy endings may be slightly unrealistic, but I can't say that I often find violent, malevolent, murderous, vindictive narcissists falling in love and ruining everything they touch, either.

Even the non-evil characters are not really good.  They are spineless and manipulative in their own rights.  There is not a redeeming personality in the lot.  There isn't even an endearing one. Nor were they characters I loved to hate.  I will conceed that by the last two pages the younger Cathy and Hareton appeared that they would fare well together with the all rest of their family finally in the grave.  Yet it hardly seemed redemptive of the story at large.

I don't get in to the Gothic themes of the mid-nineteenth century.  Plot twists become over the top for literature not meant to be fantasy.  The crazy first wife in Jane Eyre is about the most I can handle;  I at least found that story line somewhat intriguing.  Heights, no.  It's plot was just, in my opinion, long and drawn out and messy and not the slightest bit interesting.  I'd call it a train wreck, but I had no problem looking away.  It was maintaining enough interest to continue that was difficult.

I am glad I read and finished this book.  I am also glad that I ate a plate of escargot once on a cruise.  That way, if offered them ever again, I can simply reply that I'm not in the mood for snails at the moment.  But I think that neither Wuthering Heights nor escargot deserve the "classic" status that they enjoy.