Last night I was watching "Wuthering Heights". It's the kind of fucked up love story that I never really got to understand. Cathy was always a bitch to Heathcliff. I mean, if she loved him as much as she seems to love him, and at least half as much that it's obvious he loved her, how in the world could she accept to marry another guy just because he was richer? I mean, it wasn't even a matter of survival, but of luxury and comfort, and social status. In the end, maybe her soul starved of love and passion. "The guy she loved wasn't worthy to be her husband". This just doesn't exist.
Or maybe I'm just too Byronist, believing that even a love that can destroy everything around it -including the persons involved- can't destroy itself. Well, in the end they got to be buried together, Heathcliff and Cathy... but to me, Heathcliff died without living his love. It's not a happy ending, and it was never a happy story to him from the begining.
But there are still love stories like Paraguaçu, the Brazilian Indigenous Princess, that got married and went to become a writer in Europe. Of course she met her European explorer in a time when Brazilian Indigenous People could already communicate somehow with the Portuguese. And probably her book wasn't written in the best portuguese ever for the times, but still it was quite a fate. Bartira is told to be another Indigenous Princess that charmed a Portuguese guy, but somehow, something deep inside tells me this story wasn't such as lovable in real life, as legend says it was.
Whatever...I have no idea why do I still waste my time in making this historical / literary research on humans impressions and experiences on love...There are so many unique situations...people are so different...
everything is so complicated...
...and sweet!
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