All of a sudden, Wuthering Heights is selling like crack-laced and thus heavily addictive hotcakes, on account of a new edition, pictured, the cover of which plays off the book’s tangential importance in, and vague thematic resemblance to, the popular Dusk series of surrendered-wife porn pamphlets.
Inasmuch as I like books and want people to read them, I have to consider this to be A Good Thing, a potential point-of-entry to lead people to more, better books. (I know librarians; it’s rubbing off, I guess.)
Dissenting motions tabled in the parliament of mind involved the usual resentment of the insipid Club Oprah discourse that inevitably centers around mass-marketed classic and literary fiction. So, if many Twilight fans who are now or will soon be discovering Wuthering Heights happen to be reading this blog, can we just clear one thing up before you start posting in the forums about love undying?
Catherine and Heathcliff are awful, awful, awful fucking people. They are brutally selfish, haughtily entitled and inconsiderate, and entirely incapable of concern for other people — especially each other — except to the extent that other people can confirm their own inflated sense of self-worth.
This is a fairly central component of the book, though it is glossed over with surprising frequency.
But I promise, you are not supposed to be swept up into an epic love story. You are supposed to be appalled at the grotesque, quite logical endpoint of Romantic principles.