Love at 'Heights'

I am Heathcliff! He's always always in my mind not as a pleasure, anymore than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being...Catherine's words just linger and linger... It feels that some words have a high sense of superiority and priggishness that when they form a beautiful idea they just horn in every time some thoughts in relation to that idea go through our minds. So when I think of "love" these words show that priggishness. 


Every time I go through Wuthering Heights a dozy snake lurking somewhere in the inside gets up and stings me and stealthily returns to it snooze leaving me to wriggle with a poisoned pain, reviving the complexity of my notions on this BIG FAT LOVE. "Fierce, pitiless, wolfish" Heathcliff and "self-willed passionate and egotistical" Catherine with their blazing passionate bonding got etched in my mind for ever grudging to leave me. Heathcliff even digs the earth, opens Catherine's coffin and looks at her face with an ardent wish to die, to merge with her, to defrost the separation created by life and death, to attain that mystical reunion. Surely it's the story of the unfulfilled and destructive passion of two strange creatures, unfulfilled only because of that very strangeness and larger than life essence in them.  This fictitious love has its all consuming nature, a sweet torment and tempestuousness throughout it's existence. It gives me a taste of this piquant emotion, lifting me from a shallow notion of love as an addiction, as an obsession, as a mere desire for a sense of belonging or a cloying attachment to another being to a different plane unknown and ineffable. 


May be it's just a girlish amazement on the beauty of their idealized love which floats on a platonic level. Patricia Meyer in her Female Imagination speaks of Heathcliff as "powerful, manly, mysterious , fully conscious of his own worth, frequently brutal, he remains nevertheless absolutely submissive to the woman he loves. Heathcliff is every woman's dream." So my adoration for Heathcliff  and Catherine might be an infliction by this so called "female imagination". Whatever be it, it's this possibility and pleasure of feeling the unfeeling, knowing the unknown and reaching the unreachable that prompts me to revel in fictions.