I re-read Wuthering Heights recently. At work I learned that most people in the office had never read the book, so I suggested we start a book club and this be our first book.
As expected, it broke my heart again. I never know what to expect when I re-visit books from my past. When I re-read One Hundred Years of Solitude, I discovered I no longer loved the book. When I went back to Bell Jar, I discovered it meant more to me that it could have ever meant when I was a teenager. With Wuthering Heights though, I loved it just as much as I remembered loving it.
So much passion and desperation, and so much loss. I found myself hesitant to read it though, I kept stopping not wanting to go further because I knew that the situation would only get worse.
Now, almost fifteen years after the first reading, the story still resonates with me. Not because I've ever experienced anything anything like that, but rather because of my lack of passion in relationships. As a teenager I found myself longing for a feeling that intense, assuming it would be in my future. Now as an adult, I find myself facing that awareness that I'll never feel that. It's another sort of fear, my hope has become loss. What if you never find your soul mate? Do you settle for someone less or do you spend the rest of your life alone?
I've always joked that the book ruined me. Too often I find myself in boring, passionless situations which I then quickly end. I'm not happy in relationships because I'm waiting for my Heathcliff. Heathcliff, after all these years, remains as dark and intense as ever... always waiting for my Heathcliff...
my contribution for my book club: