Prose, as declared by Coleridge is , ‘words in best order’. And these remarkable men and women have conquered the feat of producing the finest array of thoughts,realised in the written form.
- “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless- it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside of Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers of love is Hell.”
Being Victorian, daughter of a Parison, belonging to a sickly family, all encountering early deaths: no adversary of life could deter Emile Bronte from writing this novel which speaks of passion in epic proportions. With that said, you think of Heathcliff, and a tall , dark persona lingers over. You recall Catherine and a dissatisfied youth , starving herself of her innate passion, just barges the foreground. And you just can’t but hush down your breath when Heathcliff speaks these lines:
“Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living! You said I killed you—haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers. I believe—I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh God! it is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!”