How would we have felt if, as children, our father returned home with a boy of an alien ethnic group and forced it into our bedroom as a new “brother”? How would we have felt if, after resenting this betrayal and picking on the unfortunate intruder—as children usually do—, our father sends us, not the intruder, to a boarding school?
Forget every film you have seen to date: because that’s how the real Wuthering Heights novel began.
In his travels Mr. Earnshaw finds a homeless boy. Once more, forget every Hollywood image because the skin of this boy was similar to that of “a little lascar.” Mr. Earnshaw decides to adopt him and name him “Heathcliff.” Brontë describes Heathcliff as “dark-skinned gypsy in aspect.” Naturally, Mr. Earnshaw’s legitimate son, Hindley, finds himself robbed of his father’s affections and becomes bitterly jealous of the little lascar. (The poor intruder was not even a half-bro or an illegitimate child of Mr. Earnshaw with a gypsy woman.)
Every single critic of the novel, even the most conservative, seems to have missed the racial aspect of this drama.
I would go so far as to suggest that, once the ethno-state is established Wuthering Heights will be picked as one of the classics to symbolically convey the tragedy of pushing, against the legitimate heir’s will, an illegal alien that after some time hostilely takes over the entire family estate and starts hunting down key Anglo-Saxon characters in a life dedicated to revenge (such is Wuthering Heights’ plot—gypsies are so good at that…).
Furthermore, the real Wuthering Heights is no love story at all. The 1939 adaptation with Lawrence Oliver is as detached from the original story as, say, Disney’s Pinocchio from the original, and far more sinister, Carlo Collodi tale. Catherine and the gypsy are the polar opposite of heroine and hero. The first Catherine is precisely an early embodiment of the contemporary out-group altruism that has been destroying the West since we committed the blunder of empowering women.
The drama of the novel only ends when—after the deaths of Mr. Earnshaw, Catherine Earnshaw, Isabella Linton, Edgar Linton, Hindley Earnshaw and Linton Heathcliff, the son of the gypsy who dies as a result of the abuse perpetrated by his father—Heathcliff finally dies and the second Catherine can, at last, reclaim a life together with her first cousin: the survivors.
Only pure whites survive at the end of the drama.
And how come no one has done such obvious reading of this classic of English literature, that the tragedy only ends when the gypsy dies?
Wuthering Heights ought to be presented to European-descended peoples as the perfect metaphor of what Europeans have been self-inflicting in the last decades: importing millions of hostile “gypsies” to displace the native “Hindleys.” In fact, in the novel Mr. Earnshaw, whose Christian, altruistic fondness for the gypsy boy would cause havoc, reminds me the proverb “a dog that wags its tail for strangers and barks at its own people.”
Mr. Earnshaw, whose altruistic fondness for the gypsy boy would cause havoc, reminds me what these Swedes are doing not with a single family, but with their entire nation: a deranged Christian sense of compassion à la St Francis transmuted into secular, runaway liberalism.
The drama of Wuthering Heights was located, of course, in the Yorkshire manor. But presently this is happening by means of non-white immigration into every white heartland; Sweden, just one of the most notorious examples.
Reread Brontë’s novel to understand the Swedes!