Last night, I was talking to a friend about Heathcliff. He is one of my all-time favourite characters. Mainly because his heart was like a woman’s. Like a mother of a new-born. He opened his heart and let his affection pour out like a savage sea. His heart was jagged and gritty and echoed with the hollow winds of unrequited love. He did not shield his heart from irrefutable pain or rejection. He, in fact, seemed to be spurred on by both. He did not put up a barbed little fence around his pride. Did not decide that he would love only until this point and no more. He ripped his heart just so that it remained open for Catherine. He hunted, he haunted.
And in some bizarre way, in a way that can only spell self-destruction, he managed to shield his heart from only two things that could have saved him – control and restraint.
I have unlikely heroes.