Dear Eliane,

How I wish I knew you in high school! And what I wouldn’t give to get my hands on your emotional, raw, potentially punk poetry splayed on the pages of your 5-subject college-ruled notebook—all prior to prefrontal cortex development. I’m not at all surprised that you read Emily Bronte’s cult classic and can drudge up memories of moors and moodiness. Despite latent pride in New Canaan High School’s “advanced” English classes that had me delving into Dante’s Inferno and Richard Wright’s Black Boy, I was never assigned to read Wuthering Heights.

Honestly, as one with a master’s degree in English (with an emphasis in British Lit no less), I’m deeply embarrassed that I haven’t read Bronte’s one-hit wonder—an irrefutable masterpiece. It’s even more deplorable that I studied in England, with Rachel by my side, and didn’t right this literary wrong when I enjoyed a wuthering day on the moors. I will have you to thank for nudging me towards the mysterious Heathcliff.  

In just 5 chapters, I am intrigued. Already I want to know what makes Heathcliff tick. I want to understand a man who leaves his tenant (from an isolated manor nearby) alone, near the hearth, with a brood of snarling dogs; who has a forbidden room in his own home that appears to be haunted; who was plucked out of orphandom and supplanted Mr. Earnshaw’s biological children in many ways. Who is this strange denizen of Wuthering Heights? Surely your inner emo can satiate my need to understand this fascinating Byronic hero. Don’t hold back On, I’m counting on you. Feel free to enlist 2@27 readers for sulky insights.

Inquisitively yours,

 Tracy