I have been rereading Wuthering Heights lately to see if I still like it anywhere near as much as I did in high school. The answer, for the record, is no, not really. It doesn't draw me in quite like it once did. Most of the time I find myself irritated at all the characters. But I am admittedly still a bit awed and impressed by the unbridled emotion that fills that world. Obviously it is completely ridiculous for these people to run around throwing violent fits and trying to kill each other and even dying for dramatic effect because they just can't get a grip on themselves. But now and then it seems like it would be a pleasant vacation from the emotionally restrained world that I am living in. Subtlety is all nice and elegant and stuff but sometimes it just doesn't seem to give enough play to what I am feeling.

For instance, one of my roommates moved out yesterday. What have I done to express my sadness? I have walked to CVS to buy school supplies. I have assembled all of my notes and assignments from last semester in a binder. I have figured out how to make the TV remote work again. I have fussed about in the kitchen, decided that I was too lazy to cook, and walked down Harvard Street to get takeout. I have meandered unevenly up the sidewalk, trying to find the shallowest way through the puddles, my glasses blurry with rain. There have been none of the overt displays of disappointment that you would think the departure of a good friend and housemate would deserve. Instead the heavy rain has had to serve as an all-too-cliche substitute for the wild fits and ravings that a reasonably melodramatic book would offer.

But all in all, that's probably just as well.