In the bones of winter, from my experience, there is but one option for escape: a good book.
Yet, there I was a couple of weeks ago, in the last dreamy days of a golden summer, hiding away between the pages of one of the dreariest stories ever penned: Wuthering Heights. (Yes, I should have made this post awhile ago. I clearly don’t time things well.)
The interesting bit is that the whole story was concocted within the imagination of a very unlikely writer; a sheltered young girl probably not unlike Cathy (one of the main characters) herself.
But the power of the stormy heaths had propelled me to read on, and I finished the book almost wishing that I had never started it at all. That beast of a human, Heathcliff, leaves a bad taste in my mouth after all is said and done and I think it would have been great if he’d never been imagined at all. Still, I would encourage you to read the story at least once in your life, but do it in the darkest days of winter, and know that real life exists as an escape from that miserable world.
I’m now in the midst of Frankenstein, and will let you know my thoughts on that when it’s done.
Read on, my friends, read on.
(Click image for source!)