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List Goal: Read every book on the Penguin Classics Top 100 list before I die.
Book: Wuthering Heights
Holy. Mother. Of God.
Since the beginning of time and the beginning of books, this, ladies and gentlemen, was the worst book ever in the world. Well, next to Old Man and the Sea. But no one really compares to Hemmingway in his suckiness, so that's not saying much.
Just...what the hell WAS this?! You have Catherine, the melodramatic hypochondriac nutcase who somehow is in love with the cockiest, most arrogant SOB ever to grace the face of this Earth. Her dimwit husband does nothing but get stabbed and beaten by said SOB, who runs off with his girlfriend's SISTER, who in turn pops out a baby who ends up committing incest with her cousin, who is the daughter of the melodramatic hypochondraic and the dimwit husband and who subsequently kills off Mommy in childbirth. For this, Cocky SOB hates her until the end of his days and turns bitter, all the while going back and forth between trying to make her life miserable and holding her prisoner in his home, and making her life miserable and keeping her from seeing her OTHER cousin, who she's also in love with. And then the over-religious, fundamentalist Irishman who, I kid you not, I was not able to understand ONE WORD OF. Not ONE WORD.
It's Lifetime and Dawson's Creek circa 1850s Britain, folks. And absolutely nothing more. You have these vacant, empty, completely one demensional characters rolling around tearing pillows with their teeth and screeching about asinine CRAP that only CHILDREN IN JUNIOR HIGH should be whining about. And these people don't even have the excuse of being 14 years old.
It got to the point where I just couldn't even take the story seriously anymore. No real person ever would act that way. At least, no real person who wasn't tossing themselves back and forth against padded walls in a straight jacket. I just wanted it to end. It was so uninteresting and the material so unbelievably offensive it was nigh unbearable. I'm pretty sure my I.Q. has dropped twenty points since the moment I opened the first page a month ago.
Emily Bronte writes well TECHNICALLY. It was easy to follow, and it did flow - you didn't necessarily feel like the story was dragging, just unbelievably lame and pathetic. But good technique and writing skills wasn't enough to save this monstrosity. It's noted as one of the number one tear jerkers in all of literature, but the only thing I was crying of by the end was happiness that it was over.
As a great man named Maddox often says of things he finds distateful: ditch this bullshit.
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