Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë is one of the classics we are all expected to know to some level. We either study it at school, read it for pleasure, watch the adaptation or hear so much about it that it feels like we know it by heart. It is supposed to be one of the most remarkable love tales, a story of an undying passion devouring the characters’ sanity.
But is it?
For me, the novel was in equal measure about love and hatred, friendship and rivalry. There was so much anger, madness and cruelty in the main characters that it dimmed all that was good and bright in them. The setting of the action on the secluded locations on the moors and the Gothic elements within the plot only added to the gloomy atmosphere.
At the same time, I have to admit that Emily Brontë was a very talented author and the novel is well and beautifully written. My feelings for it are a peculiar blend of love and hate that can only be compared to the intensity of the relationship between Cathy and Heathcliff.
I rate this novel at 3.5 out of 5 stars as I had real trouble finishing it.
A bookish daydream 