Page 24 - GALIET ETERNITY´S LOVE´S Epitaph: Bronte IV

In the manner that Catherine is Heathcliff, so is Catherine his soul: both consumed in the agony of their unfulfilled love born in the eternities of heaven and now about to be buried in earth while he dwells in the vast expanses of hell. Such is their affinity. Such that Heathcliff needs to die and be merged into oneness with her beloved in her grave. Such that he asks the sexton to remove the earth off her coffin lid, so that he may be soldered and fused with her forever looking at her impeccable, unfading face if it weren’t for the air, for the air. Such that Heathcliff bribes the sexton to rip half of her coffin open so that his half, when he dies, might be slid and embraced with hers, to be infused, to be dissolved beyond oneness into the thousand lit-stars that lay beneath them. Such that “I’ll have her in my arms again! If she be cold, I’ll think it is this north wind that chills me; and if she be motionless, it is sleep” (220). Such that “I felt Cathy was there, not under me, but on the earth. A sudden sense of relief flowed from my heart through every limb. I relinquished my labor of agony...her presence was with me; it remained while I re-filled the grave, and let me home” (221). Such that “she showed herself, as she often was in life, a devil to me! And since then, sometimes more, sometimes less, I’ve been the sport of that intolerable torture! Infernal 3⁄4 keeping my nerves at such stretch...” (221) to the point that he is unable to eat and sleep, yet he is lucid, drowned in light. Drowned by the milk of ecstasy he dies. Such were his frenetic sorrows 3⁄4 like the moors 3⁄4 wide and wild, pure, virgin and uncultivated filled with waterlogged patches in which one must drown to breathe. He, like Winter and Summer. “In winter, nothing
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