War of the Words

When I was nine, all I wanted for Christmas was a Barbie Dream House. I begged. I pleaded. I cried.

But after all was said and done on Christmas morning, my Barbies were still homeless, living out of their kickass 1970s van. But I did get a present that has outlasted all other childhood gifts - a green leather-bound book with gold trim. On the front, it said “The Complete Works of Charlotte and Emily Bronte.”

Of course, at nine, I could barely get through the first paragraph of “Wuthering Heights.” But every couple of months for the next three or four years I would return to this beautiful book that smelled of mystery and leather, attempting to untangle the seemingly impervious language.

By the time I reached high school, the Brontes were my favorite authors. I love the dark, gothic feel of their novels. I yearn for the turmoil, heartache and redemption that they so brilliantly dole out. I love the moors, the cold English countryside, the orphans, the tantrums, the untimely deaths. They wrote about the Industrial Revolution, struggles amongst the social classes, the rise and fall of religion… Their books taught me more about European history than four years of high school.

And while I love each and every Bronte story, “Wuthering Heights” stands above the rest as the culmination of everything good, solid and true about 19^th century British literature. Emily Bronte wrote only one novel in her lifetime. And what a piece of work it is. For me, it’s an early feminist tome that reflects the reality of life at the time it was written. Her characters are sharp, flawed, hateful people who made you love and despise them at the same time.

My sister (who is also a huge Bronte fan), myself and my grandfather had a debate last year about who was a better writer – the Brontes or Jane Austen. He chose Austen. We defended the Brontes. He said he liked how the heroes and heroines in Austen always seem to rise to the top at the end (Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility… need I say more?). My sister and I argued that the Brontes were more realistic. When the Brontes’ characters fall in love, it’s often unrequited. Most die at a young age.

Now that’s good stuff.

My friend WriterJax (link to her blog under "My Bookmarks) does not share my affinity for Bronte. I believe she actually wrinkled her nose and used the word “hate” to describe my precious “Wuthering Heights.” While she and I are both writers, with many of the same interests and passions, our taste in literature is quite different.

She prefers Aldous Huxley’s “Brave New World.” For me, that book is like Kryptonite. We were assigned “Brave New World” as part of our summer reading senior year. I got through one chapter, closed the book and vowed never to open its infernal pages again. I informed my AP English teacher that I just couldn’t do it, and begged to read something else. I think she assigned me Henrik Ibsen as a substitute, which I read with gusto.

Now, the time has come for the ultimate literary face-off. Writerjax and I initiated a War of the Words in which she will re-read “Wuthering Heights,” and I will defy all my internal promises and wade through “Brave New World.” Before embarking on this journey, Wrierjax talked about why she loves “BNW.” I extolled the many virtues of “WH,” Catherine, Heathcliff and the English moors. We go into this challenge with an open mind, focusing on the books’ positive qualities and the influence they have had on our lives and careers.

So here we go. What do you think? Which book to you prefer? Are you enchanted by Catherine, Edgar and Heathcliff’s never-ending love triangle that ends in death and despair? Or do you prefer Huxley’s vision of a utopian society?

For me, the choice is simple”

“I sought, and soon discovered, the three headstones on the slope next the moor: the middle one grey, and half buried in heath: Edgar Linton's only harmonized by the turf and moss creeping up its foot: Heathcliff's still bare.

I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.”