What Re-Reading Classics Can Tell Us About Ourselves

Getting Over Heathcliff

Photo by Nathan Anderson on Unsplash

Young Heathcliff of Wuthering Heights was my first crush. He had this hot, mysterious, bad boy vibe, kind of Joel Madden-y in like, an 1840s way. Eleven-year-old me absolutely swooned over that little prince of the moors. When I found out he was also Heath Ledger’s namesake…well it was over for my hormones.

This crush was short-lived, though, and contained to the early chapters of Heathcliff’s youthful self; my guy needed some serious therapy in adulthood, and probably a few restraining orders.

But literary love interests aside, Wuthering Heights has always been my favorite classic. I’ve re-read it every year since I was an angsty teen, when I could practically feel Yorkshire’s gusty wind on my face from my musty Missouri library. Oh to frolic over the cliffs! To get snowed in at that creepy mansion! It was honestly the first time I’d felt totally transported by a book since the Magic Treehouse.

I only recently found out that Brontë wrote the classic under a male pen name — I was frankly shocked to know I’d slept on such a crucial fun fact. With every new read and additional knowledge, my experience shifts. Loyalties waver; I trust Nelly, I don’t trust Nelly. I hate Heathcliff, I sympathize with him. I once thought of Catherine’s tortured proclamation…