Wuthering Heights, a love letter to Emily Brontë

Emily Brontë, oil painting by Branwell Brontë, 1833 (detail)

Many have this idea of Brontë sisters as innocent, isolated and shy women, living in the end of the world without knowing about real life. But how and why can someone think like that? Especially after reading a book like Wuthering Heights?
Something I find totally wonderful, magical about this book is that not matter if you read it once or a million times, it always feels like a new discovery, the emotions are so devastating, raw and complex that is invariably a tumultuous and powerful journey. In all honesty, I can say I fell in love with Emily since the first time I read about Katherine and Heathcliff, the horror mixed so finely with a love story was captivating and still is.

“Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I can not live without my life! I can not live without my soul!”
― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

Reading the Brontë sisters, in this case Emily, is always a complex experience, we must think of it as a universe apart. Those long nights in which the three sisters were writing their books together, talking and helping each other… the madness of passion, the madness of women in love, women with real, powerful emotions, women that breath, feel and write! If we read and study Emily's work, both the novel and her poetry, within the social and intimate context, they become even more powerful pieces. Isolated women yes, but never weak, never inexperienced. Emily's pen speaks of her for her, it is full of passions, full of pain and madness, pure and devastating emotions belonging to a strong, autonomous, determined mind.

I have always liked to think of these sisters and their sleepless nights of writing as a coven, between whispers, between stormy nights, correcting, crossing out, breaking and desperately in love with their stories. Literature liberates, liberates the mind and casts out our demons, Emily put her soul into her writing, that is why we love this book and her words so much. In my case, I have the happiness of being able to read this novel in Spanish and English, I must say that in both languages it is totally captivating, hypnotizing. How could she describe so well the insanity of a man rejected by the world? How could she tell us in this unique way about the love that united two wild beasts? Emily knows the human heart, she knows what souls are made of.

“You said I killed you-haunt me, then! [...] Be with me always-take any form-drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!”
― Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights

“Bésame y llora todo lo que quieras, arráncame besos y lágrimas, que ellas te abrasarán y serán tu condenación. Tú misma te has matado. Si me querías, ¿Con qué derecho me abandonaste? ¡Y por un mezquino capricho te sentiste hacia Linton! Ni la miseria, ni la bajeza, ni aun la muerte nos hubiera separado, y tú, sin embargo, nos separaste por tu propia voluntad. No soy yo quien ha desgarrado tu corazon. Te lo has desgarrado tú, y al desgarrártelo has desgarrado el mío… y si soy más fuerte, ¡Peor para mí! ¿Para qué quiero vivir cuando tú…? ¡Oh, Dios, ¡quisiera estar contigo en la tumba!”

His soul has left the storm below
And reached a realm of sunless snow
The region of [unchanging] woe
Made voiceless by despair”
― Emily Brontë, The Complete Poems

The strength that Emily put in each word make hard to imagine her as a shy woman don’t you think? Her poetry, in my opinion, make it even more difficult given that is full of deep sorrow, loneliness but also a lot of power and knowledge of the human being. Beyond the gothic pleasure that we can find in her work, which is obviously wonderful, the theme of dark morality, pleasure in pain, is fascinating. This woman draws us characters and moments full of extreme passion, moments with wild realism and unusual eroticism. The extreme situations in which she places us make us hold our breath, question ourselves.

Wuthering Heights, Robert McGinnis.

Heathcliff and Katherin are a brutal portrait of humanity, its savagery and purity, a portrait of beauty, passion and hate, of innocence lost, of pain and love that corrupts everything. Heathcliff is the perfect anti-hero, the villain we know we should hate but can't. The villain who is a villain because life turns him into that and yes, he is a monster, but don't we love monsters? Think of Emily, this young woman and her sisters, all filled with such strong emotions that they needed to (bless them) put all this down on paper. Imagine for a moment the ink running furiously from their fingers and creating these worlds so ours and so foreign. It is the wonder of the gift of the Brontë sisters.

“He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”
― Emily Brontë

Much has been said about Wuthering Heights, about the audacity of the work, the brutality, the inappropriateness. Especially the latter is a compliment in my opinion, all works that have been insulted, prohibited, questioned, especially those written by women, all the works that bothered the calm of the society, are perfect, they tell us about something powerful, and must be read. Emily doesn't give us a romantic love story, no, she gives us a glimpse into hell on earth, into the chaos of man, a glimpse into sick, possessive, brutal love. The fact that we sigh, feel attracted, reach the bottom of our souls, is just a sign of the power of this woman and her words.

No one in this world would be able to write a book like this one again, a story with these kind of emotions, ever.

Reminder: if you want to support my writing, studies and my medical expenses you can do it with Buy me a coffee something that I would appreciate a lot!

Death, that struck when I was most confiding
In my certain Faith of joy to be,
Strike again, Time's withered branch dividing
From the fresh root of Eternity!

Leaves, upon Time's branch, were growing brightly,
Full of sap and full of silver dew;
Birds, beneath its shelter, gathered nightly;
Daily, round its flowers, the wild bees flew.

Sorrow passed and plucked the golden blossom,
Guilt stripped off the foliage in its pride;
But, within its parent's kindly bosom,
Flowed forever Life's restoring tide.

Death, that struck when I was most confiding (April 10, 1845)