"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."
'Wuthering Heights', Emily Brontë (1847)
I remember as a young girl finding solace in reading Emily Brontë’s writing. When I most needed that feeling that my experiences and my sentiments are human after all, I found such validation in writings written almost 150 years before (at that time). This weekend I re-watched the Masterpiece Classic adaptation of her Wuthering Heights, starring Tom Hardy as the tragic Heathcliff. His interpretation is masterfully layered and complex, which is absolutely necessary when playing a character who is sadly misunderstood and undeniably cruel. If there is any sympathy we could ever feel for this character, Hardy’s performance expertly mines it in the heart of the audience. It’s absolutely engrossing, heartbreakingly romantic, wildly honest, and haunting like the mist rising at dawn over the Yorkshire Moors. Also, available on the Netflix to watch magically when you desire.
In my opinion, modern romance is an oxymoron. Romance like this doesn’t exist except as nostalgia, in the astigmatic perspective of the past in the eyes of the present. But at least, we have these things to satisfy our cravings for things that we can never have except in the infinite realm of dreams.