“There are no faster or firmer friendships than those formed between people who love the same books.” —Irving Stone
We’ve freely admitted (and proven) that we have a complicated relationship with book clubs. I’m pretty sure we’ve also demonstrated a propensity for being little idiots and biting off more than we can chew. When Eliane suggested reading Wuthering Heights together, apart, I couldn’t resist—despite a backbreaking to-do list. She’s provided important context below. Bring on the moors, bring on the moodiness!
Tracy,
We met 27 years ago, when you were my teacher. For all these years, you've been my book guru. You're an avid giver of books, reader of books, recommender of books, and of course, teacher of books. That's why I was so surprised when you recently reminded me that you have never actually read Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights, that staple of high school English classes. I'm sure that the readers of Two at Twenty-Seven would agree that it's high time we remedy the situation! So let's do it together, apart, as we do all things in these strange pandemic times. For the month of May, each week we'll read several chapters of Wuthering Heights and write about it. Anyone who wants to follow along is more than welcome.
To kick things off, I thought that before we actually start reading, we can check in and just describe where we stand with Wuthering Heights. In my case, I did read it in high school, about eleventy million years ago. I don't remember much about it, other than a lot of brooding moodiness that really appealed to my emo, poetry-writing teenage self. Also, lots of misty, foggy moors. Actually, the biggest association I have now with Wuthering Heights is the Kate Bush song and a memory of an argument I had with a friend's brother who tried to convince me that the Pat Benatar version was the original (seriously?!). But I digress.
My worry about reading Emily’s brainchild now is that I've found that the older I get, the less patience I have for books, movies, or shows in which the central tension in the plot is caused by the main characters just not talking to each other. Since that's what I consider one of the hallmarks of Romanticism, I'm afraid that I'm going to spend a lot of time shouting "Just talk to each other!" at my Kindle.
What about you? How is it possible that you haven't read Wuthering Heights? What are your thoughts going in? Feel free to remind me that the communication gap in Romantic literature is intentional—that women couldn't actually express themselves freely at the time. That my annoyance stems from the noisy expressiveness of modern female privilege. I'm ready.
Moodily yours,
Eliane