Happy Birthday, Emily Brontë

“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 any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.”


[Emily Jane Brontë - 30 July 1818 – 19 December 1848]
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The moment I see the letter “e” with diaeresis anywhere, no other name but only of hers ripples my blood. Her Wuthering Heights, the classic of English literature, is a literary product, any century would be proud of on having it produced. Let me leave your androgynous pen-name, Ellis Bell, for a while, and call you Emile.

If a re-reading lunacy pursues you, read, yet again, Wuthering Heights.

Life is synonymous to enigma – enigma is besmirched with fear. The patriarchal social structure where “terror” makes everyone “cruel”, the clashes behind displacement and dispossession that often give birth to “proud people” who “breed sad sorrows for themselves”, the sense of crude desolation and sufferings, monopoly of affection, and a blustery as well as frosty love between Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshaw make the whole novel a serious study of human beings.

I still hum the lines...
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“Kiss me again, but don't let me see your eyes! I forgive what you have done to me.”

“Well, if I cannot keep Heathcliff for my friend – if Edgar will be mean and jealous, I'll try to break their hearts by breaking my own. That will be a prompt way of finishing all, when I am pushed to extremity!”

“We buried him, to the scandal of the whole neighbourhood, as he wished.”
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Life is a serious mistake of life itself. All wars end but never get to a satisfactory end. So new wars begin. New horrors trammel the cosmos. And, after a long war, life hides its face in the ashes of its own.
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“I sought, and soon discovered, the three headstones on the slope next the moor: the middle one grey, and half buried in the heath; Edgar Linton’s only harmonized by the turf and moss creeping up its foot; Heathcliff’s still bare.”
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For her honest literary chef-d'oeuvre the diary of a dead moth pays its solemn tribute to the lady, whose literary lunacy leads me to shout “Happy Birthday, Emily Brontë... long live!” – tearing off each, every and all forlornness of mine.

4 comments:

Anonymous said...

Life is a serious mistake of life itself. All wars end but never get to an satisfactory end.

what is meant by ''an unsatisfactory'' end?

Aranya said...

Life is a serious mistake of life itself. All wars end but never get to an satisfactory end.

what is meant by ''an unsatisfactory'' end?

... and that's all said...

It was a serious typing error... an unpardonable one...

Thank you very much for leading it to a right way...

umashankar said...

Many a night I've scoured the moors with Heathcliff. Now that you remind me, the affliction is sure to revisit me!

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