Should I die only a year after publishing my first book, I certainly hope that people will take the time to read my only effort. It's a morbid thought perhaps, but it is part of what drew me to Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights. I have no wish to follow in the quietest Bronte sister's footsteps, but it is none the less an interesting thought experiment. If I could only leave one book behind, what would I write and would it be something great?
I don't think that just because it is her only book, she automatically deserves a place in the canon. There have been plenty of people who have only published one book, and with good reason. None of them, however, came from such a literate family or subsequently died before the second edition came out. The pedigree and the history make for an interesting impetus to reading, but don't really supply much in the way of discussion. Then again, maybe that's enough. Perhaps having a reason to pick up a book is all that's required to let the work speak for itself, especially when the author loses the chance.
Like Bleak House, Wuthering Heights is both title and setting. Unlike Dickens, however, Bronte stays much closer to home, at least in the first eleven chapters. Rather than oscillate back and forth between London and the country, the action takes place exclusively in the moors and manors of the English countryside. Wuthering Heights is one of two houses owned by Mr. Heathcliff, and the story begins as a new tenant in the other house is going to meet his landlord. In what seems to be a Victorian problem, the story takes a bit of winding up to get moving. Once it does, however, I found myself thinking more about the narration than the tale being told.
The book opens under the first-person guidance of Mr. Lockwood, who has taken up residence in Thrushcross Grange. By the way, at what point did we stop naming our houses like that? I mean, I know my place doesn't have acres of desolate moor surrounding it, but why can't I give it a name? But I digress. Lockwood is a fine narrator, but he's not Bronte's narrator. The text seems detached and a little confused, though that is partially a function of Lockwood's character. Not a lot happens while he is speaking, and it is hard to get a handle on what the book's about. Ultimately, he is simply a steward of the story, marking time until the real narrator can enter the scene: his housekeeper, Ellen Dean.
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