Mr. Earnshaw of Wuthering Heights adopted a waif, named him Heathcliff, and raised

him as one of his own. Close in age, his daughter Catherine and the foundling grew

up inseparable. The firstborn, Hindley, inherited the Heights and was broken by

his wife's death.

As they came of age, Catherine married Edgar of the neighboring Thrushcross

Grange, for his money.

Heathcliff vanished and then returned a Nemesis. Everyone in his generation,

Catherine, Isabella (Edgar's sister), Hindley, and Edgar, in that order, bit the

dust before him. His treacheries only recoiled on him in the end and he died a

"queer" death without the triumph of "seeing MY descendant fairly lord of their

estates; my child hiring their children, to till their fathers' lands for wages."

Primogeniture was to blame for everything, which should be the central theme

although little ink was spilled on it. Catherine couldn't marry her true love in

fear of destitution and yet insisted that Edgar accept Heathcliff and thereby

buried the seed of her own doom. It was strange that it didn't seem to occur to

anybody in the book what she was doing had to be adultery. It was also unlikely

that the church didn't gainsay all the cousin marriages. The scourge, in the

form of Heathcliff's all-consuming vengence, was the price paid for human folly.

The classic novel had sat on my bookshelf since spirited from the library's

giveaway corner last winter. Now I've finally finished it, I must say I very

much enjoyed reading Brontë.

Words and phrases such as "hip," "fain," "cant," "larch," "beck," "bonny lass,"

"a brace of grouse," "crush him to atoms," etc., etc., amused me or sent me

gladly to the dictionary.

Characters and settings are carved out with such graphic descriptions that they

print on the reader's memory. For example, here is one sentence introducing

Joseph, a servant,

    He was, and is yet, most likely, the wearisomest self-righteous pharisee

    that ever ransacked a Bible to rake the promises to himself, and fling the

    curses on his neighbour. (p42)

Language was pliable art material for the author. Here's one poem by Brontë

    Though Earth and moon were gone

    And suns and universes ceased to be

    And thou were left alone

    Every Existence would exist in thee.

in the notes for a speech from Catherine where she said "If all else perished,

and HE remained, I shall still continue to be." (p82)

Seneca had a point when he urged his friend to read only books from

well-established authors.