Wuthering Heights

 

Is this one of English literature’s greatest achievements? It might be. It is certainly a much beloved classic.

It did take me some time to come to it, however. I expect that may be because, like most males, I’d come to the conclusion, without ever having read it, that it was a girl’s novel – chic lit, as it were.

Why then did I finally read it? Because I’d decided that I ought to read what I had not when I was younger: important classics. What was I reading then? SF and horror originally; then Fantasy once I’d been introduced to D&D. Some thrillers. Then Can Lit (that’s Canadian Literature). One might imagine that I inched my way towards better literature as I aged. That is true, but it is also pejorative. Who says that any form of literature is better than another? (I do, to some extent, if I’m being honest; I always have, and likely always will.) Read what you like. But I encourage one and all to challenge themselves to read outside their comfort zone.

Which brings me to Wuthering Heights. I was pleasantly surprised by what I found betwixt its covers. It’s a frame narrative: the “narrator” is a man who tells a story about a woman who tells him a story. Both might be considered unreliable narrators. The man, Mr. Lockwood, pays a visit to his landlord, Heathcliff, and finds a sullen and inhospitable household. Snowed in, he reads a diary by a Catherine Earnshaw he finds in the room he’s shown to. Lockwood later returns to the house he is renting (Thrushcross Grange), falls ill, and while recovering his housekeeper, Nelly Dean, tells the tale of how Wuthering Heights came to be as it is now. Nelly tells a captivating tale, presumed accurate and reliable, but her story is coloured by her recollections, her love of the people involved, and her prejudices against what they’ve done to one another. One then must parse her praises and condemnations by what we learn in the narrative, and come to one’s own conclusions on what she speaks on. In time, Nelly’s tale brings us up to the current date. And in time, Mr. Lockwood leaves, only to return months later, and we discover how their story resolves.

I will not tell you how it ends. Indeed, I will not tell you how the plot plays out at all. Either you already the book and know already or you haven’t and don’t. If you don’t, my telling you will spoil the tale if you’ve a mind to read it.

I do this a lot, don’t I? Not tell the tale. That’s by design. I want you to read the classic books that have stood the test of time. They’ve endured for a reason. They’re good. They’re excellent, in fact. That’s why they survive. Perhaps that’s because they are more than their mere narrative. Sometimes they are parables, sometimes retellings of far older tales, suffused with biblical and poetic themes. Often they are highly moral tales, cautionary tales, with complex, conflicted characters who do not always do the right thing.

This tale is one of those.

Despite that, and despite its age (Emily Bronte published this, her single work of fiction – she was also a poet – in 1847), its prose is quite modern, and not at all difficult as some of her contemporaries might be (I point my finger at you Edgar Allan Poe, whose works I love, but whose prose I find daunting to my somewhat dyslexic mind). It is considered the best of the Bronte sisters’ novels. I cannot claim to judge whether this is true, as, to date, the only other I’ve read is Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre, which I’ve only just completed. Both were good – that sounds like faint praise: both were excellent – but I believe Emily’s work is the superior of the two. This is not to say that Charlotte’s most famous work is not also phenomenal, in its way. It most certainly is! But I found Emily’s prose far more accessible, however. Maybe that’s why I, personally, place hers above her sister’s.

Long story short, I really do believe that Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights is truly one of English literature’s greatest achievements, and that, if you have not read this – regardless your sex – you ought to.

The Count of Monte Cristo

 

I’m on a bit of a mission, of late. I’ve hitherto neglected reading a great any of the classics. This is not to say that I do not own them – I do – this is to say that some of them have been left languishing upon my bookshelves, gathering dust, sometimes for years, if not decades. I decided, upon reflection, that this is unacceptable. I will finally read them – now. I’m approaching 60 and, let’s be frank, time is sorter than it once was.

That sounds rather melodramatic, doesn’t it? It ought to, because it is. Which brings me to this tome, this melodramatic tale of betrayal and revenge by Alexandre Dumas, this lengthy, weighty tome. It’s long, so long that the thought of tackling it is daunting, even for those who read quickly – and I do not.

Did I tackle it? I did. And complete it? I did. In fits and starts.

What do I think of it? Did I like it? I did. Then I didn’t. Then I did, with reservation. Why? Because it was long. Staggeringly long. And unapologizingly melodramatic. But mostly because I found Edmond Dantes implausible. Not at the novel’s onset. Then I found him exceedingly naïve. And melodramatic. Indeed, I found his story riveting then. I found myself frustrated and anxious for him, as circumstance rose up against him and he found himself betrayed by a litany of self-interested ne’er-do-wells and incarcerated in the infamous Chateau d’If, left to rot when he'd committed no crime, to hide others' treason.

What I found frustrating was the middle “bit,” years after Dantes escaped from this inescapable prison, indescribably rich having inherited a long-lost treasure, and having somehow become an expert in EVERYTHING! That is what caused me to set the book aside for a time: his miraculous erudition, gleaned from the then deceased Abbe Faria, Italian priest and sage and the source of Dantes’ bequeathed fortune, who taught him everything under the sun: culture, art, politics, rhetoric, whatever…. I suppose Dantes’ years travelling in the east might also be cited for his vast knowledge, his intricate plans. But that reasoning fell flat to my mind. To elucidate, Dantes can detect a forgery at mere glance at any work of art, etc. It was then that I put the book down in disgust.

I vowed I would finish it, though. I decided to read a chapter a day. Just one. It would take some time to complete at that pace, but I’ve never been one to abandon a book.

I’m glad I did. Once I set aside my reservations and accepted the implausibility of Dantes’ encyclopedic knowledge, and the intricacies of his elaborate revenge plot, Alexandre Dumas’ masterful skill at what was once referred to as “Romance” drew me in. This is an intricately plotted story, with twists and turns, with no page unnecessary. It was still insanely implausible, to my mind. But I forgive it this.

To lavish praise and not merely complain, Dumas’ characters are well realised, his heroes and villains have concrete reasons why they do what they did. I empathize with them, but do not forgive their villainy. That said, I came to realise as I read on and Dantes’ revenge plots began to bear fruit, that he is the true villain of this story and not those who nearly succeeded in destroying his life. One might argue that they deserve what they got, but Dantes cared not a whit who suffered as he exacted his revenge.

Do I recommend this lengthy adventure? I do. But I also recommend patience with its page count. Forgive Dantes his unlikely encyclopedic knowledge, his possibly impossibly vast network of spies, informants, and debtors; gloss over Monsieur Noirtier’s miraculous ability to be understood after his paralysing stroke; and just enjoy this novel’s vast cast of characters whose tales are woven into an intricate web of twists and turns that make the journey worthwhile.

Because it is.

Dyslexic?

Have you ever pondered your state of mind?

I have. I’m not questioning my sanity, far from it; I wonder whether I’m actually dyslexic. I never have before. I’d heard the usual presumptions that dyslexics see words or letters backwards, that words slide around or fly off the page for them, and thought, that’s not me. But I’d also wondered how people can read certain books in a few hours that might take me a week to complete. The easy answer to this is that I’m stupid.

That, I’m pretty sure, is not the case. I’m not saying that I’m a genius. I’m sure I’m not. But, as noted, I’m not a fast reader. I read at a speaking pace. Slower, in fact. I sometimes get stuck. I sometimes have to read a single word more than a few times, a sentence or passage repeatedly, and sometimes I lose my train of thought or understanding and have to reread a sentence, a paragraph, a page all over again, realising that I’ve merely been reading singular words or syllables for a while, with no clue how they relate to one another, or what they might mean. Indeed, reading has always been a struggle. I was placed in “special reading class” in early grades, still deciphering picture books with “See John run” in large print while my classmates were constructing sentences. It goes without saying that I did believe I was stupid. But, once my parents heeded the advice of my school’s principal that I had begun school too young and needed to be held back, I progressed well thereafter. I was not head of the class, but I was thereafter not the dumb kid.

This is not to say that reading did not continue to be a struggle. It remained troublesome. I therefore did not become a reader until much later. Since then, I’ve been an avid and voracious reader. If slow.

So, when did I first wonder whether I might be dyslexic? Not until this year. Am I truly, though? I do not know for sure, and I suspect I will never will, as I will never be tested. It matters not a whit whether I am or not. It’s not like I will never change. Prose excites me. Poetry inspires me. But some of it mystifies me, regardless how much I read, no matter how “advanced” a reader I believe myself to be. Some of it remains perplexing, even indecipherable. Online sources are a blessing then. Let’s call them modern-day “Coles Notes” and be thankful they exist, otherwise works by the like of Allan Ginsberg might forever remain a mystery.

Reading and writing are a skill and must be exercised lest they atrophy. I exercise my mental muscle in that regard every day. If you’ve read either of my blogs with any regularity you might already know that. That said, I do not post every day, either. Reading and writing can be exhausting. But it is also my most cherished skill, too. I suppose that is because it is the one most hard come by.