Borrowing from a quote that I will most likely incorrectly attribute to Green Day, I am a walking contradiction. Despite the fact that I will judge everyone and everything at all times, I do like to keep an open mind. And so it is that though I might hate a person, place, or thing, I'll always give it another go. Eventually.
Now, I know this is beyond many people's realm of comprehension; I know a fair number of people who know what they do not like and stick to their guns No. Matter. What. But I was once the girl who hated cheese, and now by golly just you try to get between me and that hunk of Jarlsberg. Up until I met my boyfriend nearly a decade ago I swore I'd never drink brown liquor, and now by golly just you try to get between me and that bottle of whiskey. And just until a year or two ago I hated lamb, but the day before we left for London I made lamb sliders for dinner, and the day after we returned from London I made lamb chops for dinner.
But there are some things that have not gotten any better with age. My disdain for celery, for instance, remains intact no matter how many times I sneak a stalk with my buffalo wings. And Wuthering Heights is another. Because make no mistake about it, I LOATHE this book.
I'm twice as old and (at least) thrice as experienced as I was when first I read this, and so it seemed as good a time as any to give Miss Bronte her second chance. I know her life was short and sheltered, and how in her own limited way she struggled against the conventions that presumed to define her and the role in both family and society at large she could play. I get that. Moreso, I APPRECIATE that. So with that in mind I began this book fully prepared to have a change of heart, but three chapters in I realized that despite my best efforts if anything I hated it even more. Without going in to further details because (1) you've all probably already read it in high school, and (2) I swear to God my head will explode from THE RAGE if I think about it too much, I truly and honestly believe more than I ever believed in anything in this or any universe that every single character got what they sowed throughout their lives and died far too sweetly than they deserved. Detestable, one and all.
So, out of a possible five stars this book gets a whopping ONE. And I just want to be clear: the only reason that I am giving Wuthering Heights one star is so that you know I've read it and wholeheartedly condemned it. Think of it as leaving the Worst Waitress in the World a 5-cent tip; you just want to make sure she knows that you didn't just forget.
(And no, I'm not judging you for liking it.)**
*My apologies to anyone who has already read this review on Goodreads. But if I have to read your status messages on both Facebook and Twitter, you can bear with me both here and there. Alas, such is the nature of social networking.
** Okay, yes I am.