Tag Archives: wuthering heights

With Apologies to Emily Brontë

Last night
I went to bed with Emily Brontë.
What can a modest man say?
We scaled passions great heights,
And, in the midst of our delight
She lost her tights.
Then, on my way
Back over the moor
I saw
Nelly Dean
Who said, with a gleam
In her eye
“Thrushcross Grange is nigh.
Will you come back with me
For tea?”.
But I made reply,
“No, not I
For, if you take a look
None of this is in Emily’s book …!”.

Results of the competition to win a signed print copy of “My Old Clock I Wind” by K Morris

I am pleased to announce that Jaye Tomas is the winner of the above competition.

Congratulations to Jaye who wins a signed copy of my collection of poetry, “My Old Clock I Wind”.

You can visit Jaye’s blog here, https://chimerapoetry.wordpress.com/.

The question asked was, which novel begins as follows:
“1801.–I have just returned from a visit to my landlord–the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with”.

The answer is “Wuthering Heights” by Emily Bronte.

For anyone who hasn’t read this excellent novel, I strongly recommend doing so. I recently took down my four-volume braille edition and greatly enjoyed re-reading this dark and tempestuous novel.

There are many electronic versions of “Wuthering Heights” available (the novel has long been out of copyright).

You can find one such version here, https://www.wuthering-heights.co.uk/wh/novel/html/chapter_01.

To find out about “My Old Clock I Wind” please visit, http://moyhill.com/clock/.

Spellbound, by Emily Brontë

Emily Brontë is best known for her novel “Wuthering Heights”, which was published in 1847. She did, however also write poetry one of which, “Spellbound”, is a favourite of mine and is reproduced below:

“The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go”.

Strange Conversations Hav I had

“Hello?”

I halted my walk through All Saints Churchyard and turned enquiringly in the direction of the voice. The speaker, having caught my attention continued thus,

“Why are these leaning? The stones I mean”, he said.

“I don’t know” I replied, continuing on my way home.

 

Perhaps my response to the above question was a little terse. However I was unsure as to why a total stranger should accost me with such a peculiar question and I had no wish to stand around debating matters about which I knew little, in a churchyard as evening fell. Afterwards however I began to ponder on this strange question. My pondering did not revolve around why gravestones lean (I assume that over time they tend to tilt). Rather my thoughts centred around the people residing under said stones. When one is dead surely one has no interest in whether the stone above your head is dead straight or leaning like a man who has just consumed 10 pints of strong beer? The sleepers in that quiet earth will, I assume rest with the same repose irrespective of whether the stone above their head tilts or stands straight as a die?

The incident brought to mind the closing lines of Brontae’s Wuthering Heights,

 

“I sought, and soon discovered, the three headstones on the slope next the moor: on 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.

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”.

Windy Nights

This morning I awoke at around 4 to hear the wild wind rattling my casements. The sound reminded me of Lockwood, in Wuthering Heights and the terrible evening he spent in the haunted chamber. There was no Kathy moaning that she had been walking the earth these twenty years but the sound of the wind as it shook my windows was as though some unearthly presence was seeking admittance to my dwelling. The gusts blocked out all other sounds, only an untamed beast clawing at my casements could I hear.

When I left my flat at a little after 7:30 the wind had dropped significantly. My guide dog, Trigger paused uncertain as to how he ought to navigate around the odd fallen branch and pile of leaves, however there was no sign in or around Crystal Palace of the devastation which certain casandras predicted.

I reached my local station only to find that there where no trains until at least 10. I called my boss who advised that I return home and take a days leave so here I sit at my desk blogging! I have no idea why the trains where not running. I guess that leaves on the line or, more likely fallen trees where to blame. The walk to the station was a pleasant one so I don’t feel that I wasted the morning.

New Poetry Blog

Yesterday I discovered a new poetry blog which I recommend http://emilyspoetryblog.com/. The blogger quotes poems and goes on to provide her own analysis. I thoroughly enjoyed reading Emily Bronte’s The Night Wind and W H Auden’s Time Will Say nothing.

Kevin

I Won’t Harken To Your Dreams

Last night I had a series of bizarre dreams. They flashed through my sleeping brain and as with most of the dreams I experience my recollection of them is hazy now. As a child I actually tried to physically retain my dreams. I have a clear recollection of waking up, attempting to clench the dream in my hand and lock it away in a drawer in the bedroom. Of course as an adult this recollection makes me smile. Dreams are insubstancial things which it is impossible to grasp. One might as well attempt to confine the wild wind in a sack, it can not be done!
My most recent dreams brought to mind the encounter in Wuthering Heights Between Catherine and Ellen (Nelly) Dean. Where I to attempt to relate some of my dreams would you join with Nelly Dean and remark “I won’t harken to your dreams?” I wonder. I quote the relevant passage below because it is one of my favourite passages in english literature and it is relevant to the above
“‘Nelly, do you never dream queer dreams?’ she said, suddenly, after some minutes’ reflection.

‘Yes, now and then,’ I answered.

‘And so do I. I’ve dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas: they’ve gone through and through me, like wine through
water, and altered the colour of my mind. And this is one: I’m going to tell it—but take care not to smile at any part of it.’

‘Oh! don’t, Miss Catherine!’ I cried. ‘We’re dismal enough without conjuring up ghosts and visions to perplex us. Come, come, be merry and like yourself!
Look at little Hareton! He’s dreaming nothing dreary. How sweetly he smiles in his sleep!’

‘Yes; and how sweetly his father curses in his solitude! You remember him, I daresay, when he was just such another as that chubby thing: nearly as young
and innocent. However, Nelly, I shall oblige you to listen: it’s not long; and I’ve no power to be merry tonight.’

‘I won’t hear it, I won’t hear it!’ I repeated, hastily.

I was superstitious about dreams then, and am still; and Catherine had an unusual gloom in her aspect, that made me dread something from which I might shape
a prophecy, and foresee a fearful catastrophe. She was vexed, but she did not proceed. Apparently taking up another subject, she recommenced in a short
time.

‘If I were in heaven, Nelly, I should be extremely miserable.’

‘Because you are not fit to go there,’ I answered. ‘All sinners would be miserable in heaven.’

‘But it is not for that. I dreamt once that I was there.’

‘I tell you I won’t hearken to your dreams, Miss Catherine! I’ll go to bed,’ I interrupted again.

She laughed, and held me down; for I made a motion to leave my chair.

‘This is nothing,’ cried she: ‘I was only going to say that heaven did not seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with weeping to come back to earth;
and the angels were so angry that they flung me out into the middle of the heath on the top of Wuthering Heights; where I woke sobbing for joy. That will
do to explain my secret, as well as the other. I’ve no more business to marry Edgar Linton than I have to be in heaven; and if the wicked man in there
had not brought Heathcliff so low, I shouldn’t have thought of it. It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him:
and that, not because he’s handsome, Nelly, but because he’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton’s
is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire.”