When the seasons change from winter to spring, I get the horrible urge to read gothic British literature… To be more specific, I get the horrible urge to read Wuthering Heights under a tree until I have to go inside and read it by candlelight. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the fog that rolls in around dusk and makes me want to yell “HEATHCLIFF!” from the top of a hill. Maybe it’s the dark skies that make the grass look particularly vibrant. Maybe it’s the thought that people are going to be running around all twitterpaited once spring has sprung—this one probably makes the least amount of sense since it's been eons since I've participated in a good spring twitterpaited romp...
At any rate, something about the season clicks with me. In fact, I ended up buying a copy of Wuthering Heights today for this very reason (I also bought Robinson Crusoe, Rebecca, and a collection of essays by Emerson. The important book, however, is Wuthering Heights). It’s a paperback that won’t be ruined if I write in it, and it smells new. It’s officially the third copy at my disposal right now. The first copy is a maroon-bound paperback that is sitting on the bookshelf outside of my room. I’ve had it since I was homeschooled and lived in the camper (and suddenly everyone realizes why I am the way I am). The only writing I was allowed to do in that copy was underlining words I didn’t know. The second is a cheapo Scholastic copy from the 1970’s. The pages are yellowing, and the cover has a picture of Heathcliff’s head floating over a very manly woman (who we can only assume is Catherine) standing on a hill. That copy lives in my grandparents’ upstairs bathroom (if I ever stay in that bathroom for a little too long, that’s why).
My mother had me in tow all day, so this copy has been sitting in my ugly green bag with Rebecca since 2pm. When I finally had a moment to myself, I walked outside the misty spring air. Needless to say, every freaking tree seemed to be begging me to sit down and read. But no. With two late papers and two assignments due at midnight, there was no way I can do ANYTHING. Skipper Elyse In-Way-Over-Her-Head Winter strikes again!
All I want to do is read about how whatever souls are made of, Heathcliff’s and Catherine’s are the same. In spite of how unromantic and emotionally incompetent I am right now, ***SPOILER ALERT!!!*** I want to get my vicarious-passionate-doomed-woulda-coulda-shoulda-married-my-best-friend-but-I-totally-copped-out-and-married-the-rich-guy-which-consequently-wrecked-everybody’s-life-romance on! And dagnabbit, when did I get so hyphen-happy?
Side note: is it really a spoiler alert if the book’s been in print since 1847? Honestly, you’ve had plenty of time to read it. You have no excuse, and I no longer feel sorry for spoiling the story for you.
What’s wrong with me? And it’s not even like I’d want to date a guy like Heathcliff. I’m ridiculously tired of pissy men who take everything personally and then decide to date and ultimately marry your sister-in-law when they love (potentially read “are straight up obsessed with”) you. Ok, so it’s not entirely relatable right now. That's probably more of a high school phase anyway.
Moral of the story, gang: I’ll be much happier once my homework is done and have a chance to read Wuthering Heights.
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