Hi, can i ask you why in your opinion some people consider the moors a proper character in wuthering heights? Do you think the story would have been so different if it had been set in a different location?
I've wanted to sit on this for a bit to see if I changed my opinion/reaction, because I thought of an answer instantly. I'm going to be sincere, what I thought was "because people have not read enough (good) books".
I'm not entirely sure why people consider the moors a proper character because I don't think it works as one at all. I imagine a big part of the reason why is the appeal of the aesthetic and how powerful an impact it has had culturally and even in general in the collective imaginary, but I don't think that's exclusively due to Wuthering Heights. Trying to dig more, I'd say it's because of the importance it has for the characters, emotionally, narratively and symbolically. And, digging even more, I imagine it's due to the metaphysical bond and even ontological identification between moors and characters some people read into it.
Most if not all of these characteristics are typical of significant settings in books, though. They don't necessarily confer the settings the title of "character". And, as much abstract personality as they may have, in my opinion the moors are lacking something to be comfortable calling them so. In Wuthering Heights I'd say the house itself, Wuthering Heights, feels more like a character to me than the moors. Still, I'd say even then there's a certain something missing.
As much character or importance in ambience setting Bly Manor has in The turn of the screw, I don't think one could freely say it's a character on itself; that's sort of the situation with the moors in Wuthering Heights, I think. In comparison, Comala in Pedro Páramo, Hill House in The haunting of Hill House, Macondo in One hundred years of solitude or Vetusta in La Regenta, to name a few, feel a lot more like characters. They are books in which the settings themselves feel fleshed out with care, thoroughly developed like a character, and they even read as having a certain will of their own, as actively participating in the narrative at times. The moors in Wuthering Heights don't work that way. And it's not a bad thing. They don't have to, that's not their role.
Now, on the question about whether I think the story would be so different if set in some other location... I think the answer is both yes and no? Of course the book would never have been exactly the same had it taken place somewhere else, and the heather and in general the description of wildlife and vegetation are symbolically meaningful. But also, I didn't have a clear image of what the moors were when I first read the book. I imagined something infertile, isolated and cold, but that's it, and it worked. I didn't know how the English moors were at all.
I do think the isolation aspect is necessary to make Wuthering Heights, and I'd say perhaps even the cold and generally bad weather, but it's also true in a similarish way Pedro Páramo works with a place that is very hot. Ultimately it's up to the writer, and it will work if it's well written and well waved alongside the other parts forming the book. Wuthering Heights was waved with the moors in mind specifically, and it works. Would the story in abstract be much different if set somewhere else? Not necessarily, probably not, but it wouldn't be exactly Wuthering Heights, just as it wouldn't be if one were to change any other of its characteristics.
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Applied Theory Ch 7 - Drop Shot - The Humiliation
Biiiiiiig thanks to @bluesundaycake for his help with the French dialogue, of which there is... much. Y'all might need translate for this one, girlies. <3
“Sirius? J'ai reçu ton message. Est-ce que tout est—?” Regulus slid to a halt in the doorway, mouth dropping open. The corners twitched dangerously, threatening a smile. “Oh.”
Sirius glared at him. “Ne moque pas de moi.”
“Je ne moque pas,” he lied, stepping carefully into the room and thankfully closing the door behind him, silently taking in… the situation. “Depuis quand as-tu ça?”
“Je me suis réveillé comme ça.”
“Et tu—”
“Tu crois vraiment que je n'ai pas tout essayé pour l'enlever?” Sirius snapped, throwing his hands up to gesture wildly at his face. “À moins que je m'arrache la peau du visage—”
“Non, vraiment?” Regulus’ eyes lit up excitedly. “Même avec du maquillage?”
“Non. Ça ne couvre rien, ça change même de couleur.”
“Fascinant.”
“Concentre-toi, Regulus ! J'ai besoin de ton cerveau et son obsession pour les détails!”
Regulus raised a brow at him. “Si tu me le demandes comme ça...”
“Tu sais bien ce que je veux dire!”
His brother crossed his arms, and for a brief, terrifying moment, Sirius thought he might abandon him to his fate.
Instead, he did something far, far worse.
“D'accord, j'appelle Madame Maxime.”
Sirius blanched. “Pourquoi ferais-tu ça?”
“Car quelle que soit ton opinion de moi - injustifiée d'ailleurs - ce que Lupin t’a fait au visage dépasse largement même mes capacités.” And without another glance in his direction, Regulus swept out the door, leaving Sirius alone to await the inevitable.
It was over. His life, his career — all of it, over. He would never survive the humiliation, he was certain of it.
For a mercy, Regulus returned with Olympe in short order — far more quickly than he had expected, in truth. Unmercifully, she was far less contained than his brother had been, letting out a loud, booming laugh the moment she set eyes on him.
“L'œuvre de votre grand rival, je suppose?” she asked, grinning widely as she inspected the word emblazoned across his forehead. At his sullen nod, she snorted. “Ah non, courage. Il aurait pu écrire bien pire que ‘twat.’ Y avait-il un message, ou était-ce que c’était censé être la grande finale après ces grues en papier - combien y en avait-il?”
“Mille, soi-disant,” he grumbled. They had haunted him for the better part of three weeks, hiding in every corner of the castle only to fly out when he least expected it and smack him about the face. Even his own quarters hadn’t been safe. But they had come with a proper letter — not a Howler — which he pulled from his pocket and handed off to Olympe.
“... I send these cranes with the wish that you find better uses of your time — Personne ne peut l'accuser d'être passif-agressif.”
Sirius’ scowl deepened. “Lupin est un vrai comédien.”
“Et c'est un vrai sorcier, d’après son travail.” She paused, swatting him on the cheek gently with the parchment. “Ne fronce pas les sourcils comme ça, ça donne des rides.”
“Ça ne le tuerait pas d'avoir l'air son âge, à mon avis,” Regulus muttered, earning an elbow to the ribs from Sirius. “D'autant plus qu'il refuse de faire son âge.”
Olympe hummed. “Je n'ai jamais rien vu de tel. C'est incroyable, quand même.”
“Devrait-on le laisser, alors? Puisque le titre lui conv—oof!” Regulus recoiled at a firmer strike from his brother — this time to the stomach — retaliating with a swift kick to the ankle.
“Professeurs,” the Headmistress warned lightly, “n'oubliez pas que vous êtes censés enseigner aux enfants, et non les imiter.”
“Je ne peux pas enseigner comme ça,” Sirius groaned. “Si on ne peut pas l'enlever de mon visage…”
“C'est possible.” Olympe handed him the letter, all but waving it under his nose. “Tu vois? Il t'a laissé toutes les informations nécessaires ici.”
“Ah bon?” Sirius squinted down at the last line, written in Lupin’s steady, looping script. “Il ne fait que me traiter d'idiot.”
“Non. Lis comme il faut.”
Sirius pursed his lips, failing to see the value in this exercise, but obeyed nonetheless: “I’m sure someone as clever as you has already figured out the source of the problem, but just in case my fifth-years are cleverer than you— oui, très original, Lupin — then you might want to know it’s a simple localisation issue. Do let me know how you make out. Il est audacieux lui, de s'attribuer le mérite d'avoir trouvé le problème de localisation alors que c'est moi qui lui en ai parlé en premier lieu. L'arrogance—!”
“Tu ne vois pas d'autre raison pour qu’il ait pu dire ça?” Regulus asked pointedly enough to stop Sirius in his tracks.
What did Lupin gain from taking credit for this? It wasn’t as though he were making the claim publicly; it was a private letter — or would have been if he hadn’t just shared the contents. Was it a threat? Blackmail of some sort? If so it was a piss-poor attempt; he’d gotten worse from his grandmother — after she’d lost her teeth. So what was it? And now that he was looking at it more closely, why was the phrasing sitting so strangely with him?
And then, all at once, it clicked.
He dropped his face into his hands — stupid. “C'est un problème de localisation.”
“Voilà,” Olympe said, clasping his shoulder gently as she stood. “Il suffit de trouver le sort qu'il a lancé en anglais, et tu devrais pouvoir inverser l'effet, non?”
It sounded so easy when she said it like that - despite the fact that there were half a dozen spells he needed to try, and pray he came across the correct variation. But unfortunately Sirius found himself remembering a crucial bit of information from Lupin’s biography — information which could well spell his doom.
He let out a mirthless laugh. “En théorie, oui. Mais Lupin n'est pas anglais, il est gallois.”
A ringing silence met his statement, hanging in the air for several tense moments.
Regulus broke first, throwing his head back with a sharp, barking laugh so similar to his own, and he walked out of the room — still laughing, his work complete.
Olympe sniffed, shaking her head. “Faire son âge… c'est l'hôpital qui se moque de la charité,” she muttered, turning to Sirius with a sympathetic grimace. “Tu peux continuer seul à partir d'ici, oui?” At his nod, she continued: “Très bien. J'ai cru comprendre que tu prendra la parole lors de la grande conférencecet été. C'est aux États-Unis cette année, n'est-ce pas ?”
“New York,” Sirius supplied with a proud, if weak smile. His work in recursive casting methodology — which had sprung, interestingly enough, from his feud with Lupin — had finally caught not only the eye of l'Académie de la Magie, but that of the greater international community at large. To be able to present his research at IACST was an incredible honour. And one which — he hoped — he would be able to accept with a clear complexion.
“J’ai aucun doute que tu vas bien nous représenter.” She walked to the door. “Je vais couvrir tes cours de l'après-midi aujourd'hui, mais si tu n’as toujours pas trouvé la solution d'ici demain, puis-je suggérer un chapeau?”
Sirius flushed, but inclined his head gratefully. “Oui, Madame. Merci.”
Once she had left, he walked over to the mirror, pointing his wand carefully at the offensive word spelled across his forehead in bold, black lettering. “Evanesco.”
A small, simple variation, but significant enough; still, the word didn’t budge.
Sirius wondered idly what the protocol would be if he were to murder Lupin at the conference — assuming of course the prick would be there (he would; ego that size? He’d never miss it.)
Well. Hopefully he wouldn’t need to find out.
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okay guys i am perhaps drunk and it is perhaps four am in the morning but HEAR ME OUT
ich liebe das leben von vicky leandros is the absolute hob song and no one can convince me otherwise
we sang it in our extended new years karaoke and the ENTIRE time i was imagining hob after 1989 or maybe after a big fight or even breakup with dream with this song because it is Him!!! he is it!!!! i might have to write a fic or something bc people need to know!!!
here is an excerpt to show what i mean!
no, don't worry about me
You know how i love life
...
what could happen to me, then?
believe me, i love life
the carousel will keep on turning
Even when we part ways
i'm sticking the full lyrics under a cut to prove my point!!!!! happy new years to anyone who sees this INCREDIBLY niche post (where are my german sandman fans at come interact with me)
Dein Koffer wartet schon im Flur
Du Iässt mich allein
Wir seh′n uns an und fühlen nur
Es muss wohl so sein
Noch stehst du zögernd in der Tür
Und fragst: "Was wird aus dir?"
your suitcase is waiting in the hall
You're leaving me alone
we look at each other and feel only
That this is how it has to be
You're still hesitating in the doorway
And you ask, "what will happen with you?"
Nein, sorg dich nicht um mich
Du weißt, ich liebe das Leben
Und weine ich manchmal noch um dich
Das geht vorüber sicherlich
no, don't worry about me
You know how i love life
And even if i sometimes still cry over you
That'll pass, for sure
Was kann mir schon gescheh'n?
Glaub mir, ich liebe das Leben
Das Karussell wird sich weiterdreh′n
Auch wenn wir auseinandergeh'n
what could happen to me, then?
believe me, i love life
the carousel will keep on turning
Even when we part ways
Mag sein, dass man sich selber oft
Viel zu wichtig nimmt
Verzweifelt auf ein Feuer hofft
Wo es nur noch glimmt
Wenn uns sowas auch sehr weh tun kann
Man stirbt nicht gleich daran
could be, that people often
Take themselves too seriously
Hope desperately for a fire
Where there's only a faint glow
And even though that can really hurt
One doesn't just up and die from it
Nein, sorg dich nicht um mich
Du weißt, ich liebe das Leben
Und weine ich manchmal noch um dich
Das geht vorüber sicherlich
no, don't worry about me
You know how i love life
And even if i sometimes still cry over you
That'll pass, for sure
Was kann mir schon gescheh'n?
Glaub mir, ich liebe das Leben
Das Karussell wird sich weiterdreh′n
Auch wenn wir auseinandergeh′n
what could happen to me, then?
believe me, i love life
the carousel will keep on turning
Even when we part ways
Vielleicht gefällt's mir wieder frei zu sein
Vielleicht verlieb′ ich mich auf's Neu′
Man wird ja seh'n (Man wird ja seh′n)
Die Welt ist schön (Die Welt ist schön)
Wie's kommt ist einerlei
maybe i like being free again
Maybe i'll fall in love again
We'll see (we'll see)
The world is beautiful (the world is beautiful)
how it happens isn't the point
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