Emily
Bronte’s Wuthering Heights has to be one of the greatest novels
of all time. It is a firm favourite of mine, even though I confess to have been
partially corrupted by the (original) screen version.
On the
few occasions I have been able to visit Haworth, it has been a magical
experience. Once I have closed my eyes to the commercialisation of its Bronte connections,
I am transported into another world. I cannot quite confess to another century
as Merle Oberon and Lawrence Olivier are welcome intruders. [In my view, the
original screen version of Wuthering
Heights - and its splendid
soundtrack - is far superior to any subsequent remakes]. The village is pretty
enough but the moor is magnificent, in all its moods. Who cannot hear a
brooding Heathcliff calling to his Cathy on the wind?
Well,
yes, I am an incurable romantic.
Of
course, Wuthering
Heights is no cosy romance.
It takes a (very) perceptive look at the darker side of love and passion...no
mean feat for any writer, let alone a 19th century parson’s daughter leading a
sheltered life.
Richer
than riches is the gift of imagination, especially when combined with a natural
talent for creativity and a keen observation of human nature and society. The
Bronte sisters had all these, and we should be thankful they chose to give
expression to all three in novels and poems that must rank among the finest
contributions of the 19th century to the written word.
TIME ON
HAWORTH MOOR
Sun on
the moor
as lovers
kiss, stir a music
of hearts
words
cannot contain;
Mist on
the moor
as lovers
tryst, seal the lyric
to an old
magic, snails
under
stones
Wind on
the moor
as love’s
moods give the lie
to that
old dare - stones
shall not
weep;
Rain on
the moor
as lovers
fret at separate
windows -
seeking words,
world
shut out
Snow on
the moor
a lover’s
grave stirs
a lonely
passion
no words
could save;
Sun on
the moor
mocks us
all, we thralls
of Time -
gives
a snail
heart
[From: Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001]
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