Is Wuthering Heights a Literary Masterpiece? Find Out
When Woolf mentioned Emily Bronte’s “Wuthering Heights”, she said that the impulse that prompted Emily Bronte to create was not her own pain and injury. After reading “Wuthering Heights”, I find it difficult to believe that That’s what she said. The heart-wrenching passion in the novel is almost impossible to achieve with one’s imagination unless one has personal experience.
A kind-hearted gentleman brought back a black child from the street. When the child grew up, he fell in love with the Shinshi’s daughter, while his son abused him in every possible way. Because he felt the outsider’s low status, the person he loved married someone else, hoping to give him a chance to change his destiny, but this hurt the outsider’s self-esteem even more. He mysteriously disappeared before his lover married someone else. A few years later, he got rich and launched a crazy revenge. Not only did he get the property of those who had hurt him, but he also watched them die one by one. And he continued his revenge on their next generation. Fate finally mocked him. His son was an Adou who could not be supported. He cried all day long, was sick and died early, and his enemy’s But the child was a replica of his youth. The daughter he loved and had by someone else became her daughter-in-law and later his deceased wife. He could not prevent the new love from happening, and finally died in desolation. This is the story Emily Bronte told us in her “Wuthering Heights”.
When comparing “Jane Eyre” and “Wuthering Heights”, Woolf said that “Jane Eyre” only wants to say “I love, I hate, and I suffer”, while “Wuthering Heights” transcends itself and wants to say “ We, the entire human race” and “You, the external forces.” I can’t see any difference in the expression of love between these two books. If there is any difference, then “Wuthering Heights” expresses “I love more, I hate more, I suffer more”. This kind of love, hate , pain has reached their limit and will bring nothing else but madness and destruction. For two people who are madly in love, “us, the entire human race” and “you, the outside world” don’t matter. They are each other’s entire universe.
“If everything else died and he lived, I could still live; if everything else existed and he died, the whole universe would become so alien that I would feel no longer a part of it.” As long as it is said from the mouth of someone who is madly in love, I can no longer believe that love will last forever, but I believe that these words come from the bottom of my heart and are uttered with blood.
Love, when it is still sweet, is sunshine, rain and dew, and syrup. When it is no longer sweet, it becomes a gleaming sword. The deeper the love, the more blood dripping. For those who have experienced the pain of love, it can act as a sobering agent at any time, allowing them to be careful before falling in love again, but even this may not prevent love from happening again, until all that person’s feelings about love are shattered. dream. I don’t know how many people died for love, but I believe that most people survived, and they survived until the years healed all their memories. It’s scary to think that one day we will be lost in the memory of someone we once loved.
“Wish I could hold on to you,” she went on bitterly, “until we’re both dead! I shouldn’t care what you suffer. I don’t care what you suffer. Why shouldn’t you suffer? What? I’m suffering! Will you forget me? Will you be happy when I’m buried in the ground? Will you say in twenty years, ‘That’s Catherine Earnshaw’s grave. A long time ago I loved her, and was sorry to lose her; but that is all over. I have loved many others since then: my children are much dearer to me than she is; and, when I die, I will not I’ll be glad to go to her: I’ll be sad, because I have to leave them!’ Would you say so, Heathcliff?”
But as long as you live, you have to deal with all kinds of things. , until those complicated memories slowly submerge the original memory, until we grow old, until life becomes dull, until we have no desire or desire for this world. It is such a luxury to be able to live by memories and revenge like Heathcliff.
Emily Bronte lived only thirty years old. I don’t know her life experience, but I think she was burned by passion and despair. For her, this may be a happy thing.
