Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte

Yes, I am fairly certain that most, if not all, of my fellow-bloggers have read this novel, and I hope a good chunk of my readership as well. I am also fairly certain that almost everyone who reads this novel develops a strong opinion of it, and I might be risking my often-in-jeopardy literary neck by offering my own view. But here goes.

First, in case you haven't read it, Wuthering Heights picks up the age-old question of nature-versus-nurture in the form of several very twisted love stories. The action centers around Heathcliff, a foundling child of mixed race, who enters the Earnshaw household. The older sibling, Hindley Earnshaw, hates him; Catherine, the younger, loves him. However, for various reasons, she chooses not to marry him, but the pretty-boy Edgar Linton instead. From there, the novel spirals into Heathcliff's elaborate machinations of vengeance.

I'm not sure what Bronte was thinking when she wrote the novel, but the narrative point of view is unusual, to say the least. A complete outsider (Lockwood) narrates the novel, but the housekeeper tells him the story that really constitutes the plot. However, she did not witness every event in the story, so she gives Lockwood long monologues from other characters... It is story veiled in story veiled in story and presents the dilemma of the unreliable narrator ad absurdum.

I don't like stories told through third-party narrators. I don't like stories where I don't identify with, like, or respect any of the characters. I don't like stories about hatred or vengeance. And if I picked some adjectives to describe the novel, they would be dark, twisted, annoying, and boring. So, logically, I should really hate Wuthering Heights. Yet, I don't. I enjoyed it the first time I read it, four years ago, and I enjoyed it this time, and I have no idea why.