The book fates are mischievous. Earlier this week, on a review of another Caribbean retelling of a British classic, a commenter deemed it evidence of the author’s lack of originality, a desperate “cling onto other people’s work”.
Read Windward Heights. Be struck in awe. Witness a god’s creation take giant strides through your sacred moor as it moves to create and inhabit new ground.
Emily Brontë wrote of violent, obsessive passion mired in the classism, sexism, xenophobia, and addiction in an English village backwater, contained in a favoured servant’s tongue. The slip to a tenant’s mean, self-involved mental energy served as no boon, no invigorative jolt to proceedings. If Wuthering Heights is the wind’s dull roar Windward Heights is the source.Continue reading “A Caribbean giant”