Love and Death in Wuthering Heights: Reconsidering Heathcliff Readers of Wuthering Heights tend to fall into two camps. Some admire Heathcliff—his pure, raw, untamed love that endures even beyond death. Others find him deeply troubling, unable to sympathize with or understand his storm-like passion and cruelty. After all, the 19th century feels impossibly distant to us now, and we inhabit an entirely different world. So how should we approach Wuthering Heights today? Are Heathcliff’s admirers simply romantic idealists who chase perfection and love grand emotions? Are his critics pragmatic realists who value reason over passion? Or does each reading offer us a chance to reach beyond our own boundaries and touch the complex, painful core of another person’s love? A Damaged Boy in a...
A friend once asked me: what struck you most about reading 1984? Many people say fear. But for me, it was something else—a bone-deep sorrow that tears couldn’t wash away. In that twilight room, he and she wake from their sleep after making love. The evening sun streams through the window, falling across her body. Outside, a washerwoman sings, and the world goes on with its ordinary traffic and bustle. In that moment, their love is undeniable, real beyond question. They both know it won’t last. But the human feelings that have come back to life—he thinks—no one can ever take those away. Later, in a winter park, she tells him: “I betrayed you.” He says, “I betrayed you too.”...
I’m thankful I didn’t read Wuthering Heights in junior high, when I was obsessed with classics like Jane Eyre and Pride and Prejudice. Back then, I might have loved the story, but I could never understand its profound emotions. Now, it draws me into its haunting mood so deeply that I can hardly break away. Truly a great book, one that reveals its beauty with life’s hindsight.
War and Peace is so vast that I have to jot down my thoughts one by one, afraid I’ll lose myself in the labyrinth otherwise. Even then, these notes are just fragments, barely touching the surface of what this book contains. The Russian Who Knows Nothing There’s a passage in the novel that made me laugh out loud in bed at midnight. Tolstoy describes Pfuel as one of those hopelessly self-confident men, unchanging and ready to die for his beliefs—a type that can only be German, because only Germans derive such certainty from abstract ideas like science, from the illusion of possessing perfect truth. The French are self-assured because they believe themselves irresistibly charming to everyone, in both mind and...
Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace is more than a great novel; it is a work that leaves an indelible mark on every reader who delves into its pages. Those who read it are never the same person they were before, their perspective shaped and enriched by Tolstoy’s profound storytelling. Single-handedly, this masterpiece cements Tolstoy’s place at the very summit of world literature, an immortal giant on the Olympus of literary greats.
Early October 1815, in the southern French town of Digne. A stranger—bald, bearded, carrying a worn sack and rough stick—knocked on Bishop Myriel’s door. He had walked twelve leagues that day, enduring insults and threats along the way. The Alpine night wind cut through the holes in his clothes, attacking him from all sides. He carried a yellow passport (the identifying document given to convicts on parole), 109 francs in savings, and a soul writhing in pain and hatred. Bishop Myriel welcomed the stranger. “You need not tell me who you are. This is not my house; it is the house of Jesus Christ. This door does not ask those who enter whether they have a name, but whether they...
“The first of the line is tied to a tree, and the last is being eaten by ants.” This haunting prophecy marks the beginning and the end of the Buendía family. But how are we to truly view this lineage? Across seven generations, the Buendías were a collection of remarkable souls: some were master craftsmen, some possessed an insatiable thirst for knowledge; others were shrewd, brave, or untiringly industrious. They carried a certain magnetic vitality—a fierce gaze and an unyielding spirit—that allowed them to conquer both battlefields and the hearts of formidable women. On the surface, the family seemed invincible. Yet, their entire existence spanned a mere century before the biblical wind swept them away, erasing their descendants and their...
Anna’s psychological monologue before her death stands as one of the nineteenth century’s most extraordinary pieces of psychological writing. It’s difficult to imagine what state Tolstoy must have been in while composing these passages. The voice recording these sentences seems to belong to Anna herself—and if we consider Anna’s suicide as the novel’s climax, then the figure standing at this peak, surveying everything below, is not Tolstoy but Death itself. The Shadow of Death The shadow of death hovers over the entire novel from its opening pages. We first encounter it when Anna and Vronsky meet for the first time, at the scene of a railway suicide. This is followed by Anna’s brush with death during childbirth, then Vronsky’s failed...
“Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four.”— George Orwell, 1984 My father once taught me that some thoughts are better left unspoken—kept safely in your heart. I believe this is a profound truth, and perhaps the reason many of us still live peacefully in this world. Yet we all know the pain of suppressing our thoughts, unable to express them. Sometimes they slip out unintentionally, or explode at an unexpected moment. If this were the world of 1984, congratulations—you’ve just committed thoughtcrime. “Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime IS death.” 1984 depicts an era that exists nowhere in particular time or space, yet the novel has become something many politicians fear. Its dystopian vision repeats...
The dilution of any spirit requires time and language to work their alchemy. Even masterpieces must bear the burden of misinterpretation—how much more so those concepts we don’t particularly cherish. Literary history abounds with such examples. Consider the old man sketched by Cervantes’ clever pen: perhaps more moving than any actual knight. A single scene can embody an entire ethos; caricature lodges deeper in the mind than epic verse. The image of Don Quixote tilting at windmills with his lance outweighs ten thousand tales of knights kneeling among roses, presenting monster heads to ladies on balconies. Chivalry became Sancho whistling as he led Rocinante by the reins. Cervantes’ prolonged jest transformed chivalry into a subject of ridicule. When Don Quixote...
After Reading
North Ward
