I feel like maybe I mentioned my attachment to Wuthering Heights in an older post. If not, then just disregard the previous sentence.
BUT--There is an interesting story behind my love of Bronte's sweeping romance, and it all begins with William Shakespeare.
As a child I spent most summers with my father and grandmother in Danbury, CT. There wasn't much to do, and no cable either. I spent a lot of time at the library. It was there that I found a VHS copy of Kenneth Branagh's "Much Ado About Nothing." I watched it endlessly. I loved it.
One day my grandmother gave me a large book. Large doesn't really describe it, actually. It is a tome. The pages are tissue thin. It was my father's old college textbook, "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare." I put on the movie, opened the book to the play, and followed along.
I was hooked. I took the book home with me and poured over it every chance I got. I wrote research papers (plural!!) on Shakespeare. By the time I was 16 I had read most of the famous plays and all of the sonnets. I still read it all the time. Right at this moment it is sitting on my desk, a bookmark tucked in between it's pages.
The summer of 2001 I was fortunate enough to take a trip to Europe with some classmates. While in England, we stopped in Stratford-Upon-Avon, Shakespeare's home. I was sooooo excited. We went through the cottage of Anne Hathaway (his wife). After the tour of the cottage we were given some free time and told to meet back at a certain time. We had tickets to "Twelfth Night." Everyone walked in the direction of town. I went the other way.
This would be a recurring theme throughout the trip. I was constantly in trouble for wandering off. I dunno, I like to...meander. And I like to be alone.
I found myself in an adorable English neighborhood. No one was around, it was eerily quiet. I walked and walked. I started to get panicky. There didn't seem to be an end to this street. I had figured at some point I would be able to go left, and the big shining McDonald's we had passed earlier would magically appear before me (it was the only landmark I had noted. I never said I was any good at wandering off). I passed a police station, which helped me to relax a bit.
Finally, I was able to turn left, and saw the golden arches over the horizon. Feeling secure again I slowed down and took in the sights. I was on a main street again, and people were bustling about. As I neared the McDonald's (I was hungry by this point. Also, please note that McDonald's in Europe is FAR superior to America), I noticed that just next door was a bookshop.
I have never, in the entirety of my life, passed up a bookshop.
Out front was a bin of discounted books. 99p (about $2.50 at the time). I began to peruse the selection. One book caught my eye. It was a Penguin Classics paperback. Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte. I knew of the book. I knew Pat Benetar had sung one of my favorite songs about it. I shelled out my money and tucked it in my purse.
Four years later, as my first serious relationship was (slowly, painfully) coming to an end, I found it again. The relationship had reached the point where I didn't even want to be in bed with him anymore. After he fell asleep I would get up and wander around the house.
One night, I started reading that book. I never put it down.
I sat on the couch, one little light on, and sobbed uncontrollably until I was finished.
The next morning I read it again.
I had never read of story of such pure love.
I realized later that that kind of love only exists in books. Real love is at once simpler and infinitely more complicated.
But I still love that book, and everytime I look at it, I think of my journey through the back streets of Stratford. And a really yummy Filet O Fish.
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