I read Jane Eyre in high school. Since then, I’ve read Jane a few times. Maybe 5-6 times? It was, probably, the first classic novel that sucked me in and that I loved. So, of course, I picked up Wuthering Heights. I’d heard of it in association with Jane Eyre. How shall I describe it? How shall I convey my feelings.
Loathing?
Utter and complete hatred?
Boredom?
And that’s the truth with me and Wuthering Heights. I just didn’t care what happened to what’s-his-name and what’s-her-name. And why was that other dude involved? I’d wonder for a second and then be like, oh right, I don’t CARE.
So, I what’s the word? Lem it? I lemmed it. I Did Not Finish. I don’t think I even read a third of it.
I decided, however, to try it again later. In my early college days, I picked it up again. Blech. Again I lemmed it.
Then it was assgined in my Victorian Lit class, and I tried it again. My teacher was good at selling it, but there was this part of me again that was like I’ve been down this road before, bitchiz, and I ain’t going down it again. So, there! No! No! No! I won’t!
Won’t!
WON’T!
Except, now, I think, maybe I will.
Wahahahaha, starting it today. If I fall asleep, I’ll let you know.
~Amanda
Amanda A. Allen 