Last Saturday, in New York City, I attended a shoes-off housewarming party alongside some of the biggest names in publishing (Didi Tucker-Plunk, Otis Mandelbroth etc.) Long after the last of the brie and olives had disappeared into the bellies—and purses—of hungry writers, I remained, in my socks, chatting with Alex Foster (yes—THAT Alex Foster).

Alex curated the party’s playlist. He was making a convincing case that Becca Rothfeld is the hottest cultural critic in the game when this song began playing over the speakers in the living room.

“What song is this?” I said.

The song, of course, was “Wuthering Heights,” by Kate Bush. I don’t believe, before that Saturday night, I had heard the song, although I was aware of a meme where people film themselves mimicking Kate Bush’s dancing in the video.

It’s no secret that “Wuthering Heights” is an awesome song. Pitchfork says it’s the fifth-best song of the ‘70’s. I won’t be arguing—much—for how good or bad “Wuthering Heights” is. Instead, I’ll be close-reading the lyrics to see what we can learn about songwriting and narrative theory.

Like many great songs, “Wuthering Heights” is a clinic of narrative compression. It takes Emily Bronte’s novel and distills it to about 250 words. That makes for quick study. Let’s begin by looking at the lyrics:

Out on the wily, windy moors
We’d roll and fall in green
You had a temper like my jealousy
Too hot, too greedy
How could you leave me
When I needed to possess you?
I hated you, I loved you too

[Pre-Chorus]
Bad dreams in the night
They told me I was going to lose the fight
Leave behind my wuthering, wuthering
Wuthering Heights

[Chorus]
Heathcliff, it’s me, I’m Cathy
I’ve come home, I’m so cold
Let me in-a-your window
Heathcliff, it’s me, I’m Cathy
I’ve come home, I’m so cold
Let me in-a-your window

[Verse 2]
Ooh, it gets dark, it gets lonely
On the other side from you
I pine a lot, I find the lot
Falls through without you
I’m coming back, love, cruel Heathcliff
My one dream, my only master

[Pre-Chorus]
Too long I roam in the night
I’m coming back to his side to put it right
I’m coming home to wuthering, wuthering
Wuthering Heights

[Chorus]
Heathcliff, it’s me, I’m Cathy
I’ve come home, I’m so cold
Let me in-a-your window
Heathcliff, it’s me, I’m Cathy
I’ve come home, I’m so cold
Let me in-a-your window

[Bridge]
Ooh, let me have it!
Let me grab your soul away
Ooh, let me have it!
Let me grab your soul away
You know it’s me, Cathy!

[Chorus]
Heathcliff, it’s me, I’m Cathy
I’ve come home, I’m so cold
Let me in-a-your window
Heathcliff, it’s me, I’m Cathy
I’ve come home, I’m so cold
Let me in-a-your window
Heathcliff, it’s me, I’m Cathy
I’ve come home, I’m so cold…

This isn’t just a distillation of the important parts of the novel. The lyrics get their power from an organization that highlights departure and homecoming. Let’s look at the way the first pre-chorus moves into the chorus:

Leave behind my wuthering, wuthering
Wuthering Heights (departure)
Heathcliff, it’s me, I’m Cathy

I’ve come home (homecoming, obviously.)

And if you listen to the song, the chorus, at first, sounds triumphant. We are also, as readers and listeners, primed to interpret homecomings and reunions as triumphant and satisfying. But that isn’t the end of the story, because the rest of the chorus is, “I’m so cold. Let me in your window.”

The phrase “I’m so cold,” disturbs the triumph of the chorus, and it hints to the listener that Cathy is a ghost: her departure from Wuthering Heights was her death; her return to Wuthering Heights is a haunting. The next phrase, “Let me in your window,” turns the triumphant homecoming completely sinister.

It also points to something unresolved. If a character leaves home, there is tension. We expect them to either return home, or to create a new home somewhere else. If either of those things happen, we feel a sense of resolution. But in this chorus, Cathy is almost home. She’s a ghost, for one thing, so she can never really return. On top of that, there is a window between her and Heathcliff. As long as that window remains closed, the chorus can’t resolve.

I love the way this haunted, unresolved homecoming plays against the triumphant melody of the chorus. The result is triumphantly spooky. It’s wicked and yearning. It just works, and the ethereal quality of Kate Bush’s voice plays right into this tension. I really believe it’s a ghost singing to me.

You may think that home and homecoming are just themes that occasionally appear in songs like “Homeward Bound,” “Homecoming,” and “Home.” But homecoming is more than a theme, it’s a dramatization of how melody works. If you’ve got a song in the key of G, the note “G” is home to our ear. As the melody moves away from G, you feel a desire to return to G, and you feel satisfied when the melody does return to G. Even if you know nothing about music theory, you can feel the satisfaction of the tension and resolution of a melody. It’s all departure from and return to a melodic home.

This video, I think, explains “melodic homecoming” a bit better than I can. It’s about John Coltrane’s “Giant Steps.” “Giant Steps” is a complicated melody, but beneath the complexity is departure and return. Everybody wants to come back home.

One way to think of narrative is as a simple melodic structure communicated by the movement of characters through space, time, emotional state, and relationship. Sometimes, a satisfying “melody” is complicated by reprehensible actions of a character, as in Love in the Time of Cholera. It’s very difficult not to root for Florentino Ariza and Fermina Daza to get together at the end, even though we know that Florentino is a liar and a sexual predator. The reader wants to believe in the romance, even though the book continually proves to us that the romance is a lie. Thus, a reunion of lovers, which is a type of homecoming, is poisoned by our knowledge of Florentino’s true character.

The novel Wuthering Heights works similarly. We know that Heathcliff and Cathy are bad for one another, and yet we cannot help but root for them to get together, even if it destroys them.

The Kate Bush song cuts to the heart of this. Cathy is always almost home. She’s right there, on the other side of the glass, imploring Heathcliff and the powerless listener to let her in.

–Nolan

PS: Mr. Mandelbroth, if you’re reading this, I think you took my shoes by mistake. I’m still in New York if you’d like to meet up and exchange them. Maybe over a cup of coffee? I could finish telling you about my novel. Let me in, Mr. Mandelbroth. It’s me, Nolan. I’m so cold.