Today is Emily Brontë’s 200th birthday, and the BBC website has an article on the creative people who have been inspired by her novel Wuthering Heights down the years.
Coincidentally, I had the letter today calling me in for my
next operation in a week’s time. As predicted, the NHS missive has done nothing
to lift my mood, which is why tonight I feel particularly intolerant of the
fact that people have been completely misinterpreting Wuthering Heights
for a very long time. It appears that most people’s inspiration was based more
on the numerous dramatic adaptations of the novel than on a careful and
unbiased reading of the novel itself.
End of post because I’m in a very tetchy mood and can’t be
bothered to write any more.
(Except to say that the full gist of my reasoning is here
if anybody wants to read it, but be warned: it isn’t a scholarly essay, it’s
obviously self-opinionated, and it drones on for about three thousand words.
And I think I should mention that I’m fairly sure Emily is still around. I
haven’t seen her for a while, but I think she is. After all, she’s the one who
pestered me until I wrote the essay. And it would be nice to think that she
might offer me a little emotional support in my current health struggles, but I
doubt she would. She doesn’t strike me as a particularly sympathetic person –
being strongly self-sufficient herself – and her own health struggles were
rather worse than mine. If she had words to offer at all, they would probably
amount to advising me to cultivate a death wish.)
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