Wuthering Heights

By Emily Brontë and Mint Editions

In this new edition of Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, re-read the classic love story that has haunted and inspired nearly who’ve come across it. From the burning love between Catherine and Heathcliff, to the estranged family dynamics at Wuthering Heights, Bronte’s novel explores the dangers of a love that remains forever unrequited.

Lockwood, a striking young man from the south of England, is only looking for some respite when he decides to rent a mysterious property in Yorkshire. The landlord, a crotchety old man named Heathcliff, tends to Lockwood as he becomes acquainted with the expansive and haunting property. When inclement weather strikes, Lockwood is forced to stay in the manner at Wuthering Heights, the home of Heathcliff himself. When Lockwood suddenly falls ill, Nelly, the housekeeper tends to him, and spills all the dirty secrets that have been concealed there over the years. Learning about the turbulent relationship between Heathcliff and his deceased lover Catherine Earnshaw, Lockwood struggles to piece together what truly happened on the property at Wuthering Heights.

The stories concealed within Wuthering Heights have been hailed as completely original in the legacy of Victorian era literature. Emily Bronte created new narrative structures, such as the frame narrative, which had not been seen before. This avant-garde writing style has been celebrated for decades. Wuthering Heights is a love story that will both terrify and enthrall the most daring of readers.Professionally type-set, and including a new section about the author herself, < I>Wuthering Heights is just as riveting today as it was when it was originally published in 1847.

Since our inception in 2020, Mint Editions has kept sustainability and innovation at the forefront of our mission. Each and every Mint Edition title gets a fresh, professionally typeset manuscript and a dazzling new cover, all while maintaining the integrity of the original book.

With thousands of titles in our collection, we aim to spotlight diverse public domain works to help them find modern audiences. Mint Editions celebrates a breadth of literary works, curated from both canonical and overlooked classics from writers around the globe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mint Editions
• Release date: Apr 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781513264066

Emily Brontë

Emily Brontë (Thornton, Yorkshire, 30 de julio de 1818 - Haworth, Yorkshire, 19 de diciembre de 1848) fue una escritora británica. Su obra más importante es la novela Cumbres Borrascosas (1847), considerada un clásico de la literatura inglesa. Emily era la quinta de seis hermanos. En 1820 la familia se trasladó a Haworth, donde su padre fue nombrado párroco (anglicano). Su madre murió el 21 de septiembre de 1821 y, en agosto de 1824, Charlotte y Emily fueron enviadas con sus hermanas mayores, María y Elizabeth, al colegio de Clergy Daughters, en Cowan Bridge (Lancashire), donde cayeron enfermas de tuberculosis. En este colegio se inspiró Charlotte Brontë para describir el siniestro colegio Lowood que aparece en su novela Jane Eyre. María y Elizabeth volvieron enfermas a Haworth y murieron de tuberculosis en 1825. Durante su infancia y tras la muerte de su madre, las tres hermanas Brontë, Charlotte, Anne y Emily, junto a su hermano Branwell, inventaron un mundo de ficción formado por tres países imaginarios (Angria, Gondal y Glass Town) y solían jugar a inventarse historias ambientadas en él. En 1838, Emily empezó a trabajar como governess en Law Hill, cerca de Halifax. Más tarde, junto a su hermana Charlotte, fue alumna de un colegio privado en Bruselas, hasta que la muerte de su tía la hizo volver a Inglaterra. Emily se quedó a partir de entonces como administradora de la casa familiar. En 1846, Charlotte descubrió por casualidad las poesías que escribía su hermana Emily. Las tres hermanas Brontë decidieron entonces publicar un libro de poesía conjunto. Para evitar los prejuicios sobre las mujeres escritoras, las tres utilizaron seudónimos masculinos (los nombres que usaron fueron Currer Bell, Ellis Bell y Acton Bell). Las poesías de Emily son incomparablemente las mejores del tomo, no cabiendo duda de que es una de las mejores poetisas de Inglaterra. Sólo se vendieron dos ejemplares del libro, que pasó inadvertido; pero las Brontë no se desanimaron por ello y decidieron escribir una novela cada una. En 1846 se publicó Cumbres Borrascosas, que se ha convertido en un clásico de la literatura inglesa a pesar de que inicialmente, debido a su innovadora estructura, desconcertó a los críticos. Al igual que la de sus hermanas, la salud de Emily fue siempre muy delicada. Murió el 19 de diciembre de 1848 de tuberculosis a la temprana edad de 30 años, tras haber contraído un resfriado en septiembre en el funeral de su hermano. Cumbres borrascosas ha sido llevada varias veces al cine desde la época muda.

Book preview

Chapter 1

1801

I have just returned from a visit to my landlord—the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with. This is certainly a beautiful country! In all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed on a situation so completely removed from the stir of society. A perfect misanthropist’s heaven: and Mr. Heathcliff and I are such a suitable pair to divide the desolation between us. A capital fellow! He little imagined how my heart warmed towards him when I beheld his black eyes withdraw so suspiciously under their brows, as I rode up, and when his fingers sheltered themselves, with a jealous resolution, still further in his waistcoat, as I announced my name.

Mr. Heathcliff? I said.

A nod was the answer.

Mr. Lockwood, your new tenant, sir. I do myself the honour of calling as soon as possible after my arrival, to express the hope that I have not inconvenienced you by my perseverance in soliciting the occupation of Thrushcross Grange: I heard yesterday you had had some thoughts—

Thrushcross Grange is my own, sir, he interrupted, wincing. I should not allow anyone to inconvenience me, if I could hinder it—walk in!

The walk in was uttered with closed teeth, and expressed the sentiment, Go to the Deuce: even the gate over which he leant manifested no sympathising movement to the words; and I think that circumstance determined me to accept the invitation: I felt interested in a man who seemed more exaggeratedly reserved than myself.

When he saw my horse’s breast fairly pushing the barrier, he did put out his hand to unchain it, and then sullenly preceded me up the causeway, calling, as we entered the court,—Joseph, take Mr. Lockwood’s horse; and bring up some wine.

Here we have the whole establishment of domestics, I suppose, was the reflection suggested by this compound order. No wonder the grass grows up between the flags, and cattle are the only hedge-cutters.

Joseph was an elderly, nay, an old man: very old, perhaps, though hale and sinewy. The Lord help us! he soliloquised in an undertone of peevish displeasure, while relieving me of my horse: looking, meantime, in my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need of divine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no reference to my unexpected advent.

Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff’s dwelling. Wuthering being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed: one may guess the power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun. Happily, the architect had foresight to build it strong: the narrow windows are deeply set in the wall, and the corners defended with large jutting stones.

Before passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of grotesque carving lavished over the front, and especially about the principal door; above which, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins and shameless little boys, I detected the date 1500, and the name Hareton Earnshaw. I would have made a few comments, and requested a short history of the place from the surly owner; but his attitude at the door appeared to demand my speedy entrance, or complete departure, and I had no desire to aggravate his impatience previous to inspecting the penetralium.

One stop brought us into the family sitting-room, without any introductory lobby or passage: they call it here the house pre-eminently. It includes kitchen and parlour, generally; but I believe at Wuthering Heights the kitchen is forced to retreat altogether into another quarter: at least I distinguished a chatter of tongues, and a clatter of culinary utensils, deep within; and I observed no signs of roasting, boiling, or baking, about the huge fireplace; nor any glitter of copper saucepans and tin cullenders on the walls. One end, indeed, reflected splendidly both light and heat from ranks of immense pewter dishes, interspersed with silver jugs and tankards, towering row after row, on a vast oak dresser, to the very roof. The latter had never been under-drawn: its entire anatomy lay bare to an inquiring eye, except where a frame of wood laden with oatcakes and clusters of legs of beef, mutton, and ham, concealed it. Above the chimney were sundry villainous old guns, and a couple of horse-pistols: and, by way of ornament, three gaudily-painted canisters disposed along its ledge. The floor was of smooth, white stone; the chairs, high-backed, primitive structures, painted green: one or two heavy black ones lurking in the shade. In an arch under the dresser reposed a huge, liver-coloured bitch pointer, surrounded by a swarm of squealing puppies; and other dogs haunted other recesses.

The apartment and furniture would have been nothing extraordinary as belonging to a homely, northern farmer, with a stubborn countenance, and stalwart limbs set out to advantage in knee-breeches and gaiters. Such an individual seated in his arm-chair, his mug of ale frothing on the round table before him, is to be seen in any circuit of five or six miles among these hills, if you go at the right time after dinner. But Mr. Heathcliff forms a singular contrast to his abode and style of living. He is a dark-skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman: that is, as much a gentleman as many a country squire: rather slovenly, perhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence, because he has an erect and handsome figure; and rather morose. Possibly, some people might suspect him of a degree of under-bred pride; I have a sympathetic chord within that tells me it is nothing of the sort: I know, by instinct, his reserve springs from an aversion to showy displays of feeling—to manifestations of mutual kindliness. He’ll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to be loved or hated again. No, I’m running on too fast: I bestow my own attributes over-liberally on him. Mr. Heathcliff may have entirely dissimilar reasons for keeping his hand out of the way when he meets a would-be acquaintance, to those which actuate me. Let me hope my constitution is almost peculiar: my dear mother used to say I should never have a comfortable home; and only last summer I proved myself perfectly unworthy of one.

While enjoying a month of fine weather at the sea-coast, I was thrown into the company of a most fascinating creature: a real goddess in my eyes, as long as she took no notice of me. I never told my love vocally; still, if looks have language, the merest idiot might have guessed I was over head and ears: she understood me at last, and looked a return—the sweetest of all imaginable looks. And what did I do? I confess it with shame—shrunk icily into myself, like a snail; at every glance retired colder and farther; till finally the poor innocent was led to doubt her own senses, and, overwhelmed with confusion at her supposed mistake, persuaded her mamma to decamp. By this curious turn of disposition I have gained the reputation of deliberate heartlessness; how undeserved, I alone can appreciate.

I took a seat at the end of the hearthstone opposite that towards which my landlord advanced, and filled up an interval of silence by attempting to caress the canine mother, who had left her nursery, and was sneaking wolfishly to the back of my legs, her lip curled up, and her white teeth watering for a snatch. My caress provoked a long, guttural gnarl.

You’d better let the dog alone, growled Mr. Heathcliff in unison, checking fiercer demonstrations with a punch of his foot. She’s not accustomed to be spoiled—not kept for a pet. Then, striding to a side door, he shouted again, Joseph!

Joseph mumbled indistinctly in the depths of the cellar, but gave no intimation of ascending; so his master dived down to him, leaving me vis-a-vis the ruffianly bitch and a pair of grim shaggy sheep-dogs, who shared with her a jealous guardianship over all my movements. Not anxious to come in contact with their fangs, I sat still; but, imagining they would scarcely understand tacit insults, I unfortunately indulged in winking and making faces at the trio, and some turn of my physiognomy so irritated madam, that she suddenly broke into a fury and leapt on my knees. I flung her back, and hastened to interpose the table between us. This proceeding aroused the whole hive: half-a-dozen four-footed fiends, of various sizes and ages, issued from hidden dens to the common centre. I felt my heels and coat-laps peculiar subjects of assault; and parrying off the larger combatants as effectually as I could with the poker, I was constrained to demand, aloud, assistance from some of the household in re-establishing peace.

Mr. Heathcliff and his man climbed the cellar steps with vexatious phlegm: I don’t think they moved one second faster than usual, though the hearth was an absolute tempest of worrying and yelping. Happily, an inhabitant of the kitchen made more despatch: a lusty dame, with tucked-up gown, bare arms, and fire-flushed cheeks, rushed into the midst of us flourishing a frying-pan: and used that weapon, and her tongue, to such purpose, that the storm subsided magically, and she only remained, heaving like a sea after a high wind, when her master entered on the scene.

What the devil is the matter? he asked, eyeing me in a manner that I could ill endure, after this inhospitable treatment.

What the devil, indeed! I muttered. The herd of possessed swine could have had no worse spirits in them than those animals of yours, sir. You might as well leave a stranger with a brood of tigers!

They won’t meddle with persons who touch nothing, he remarked, putting the bottle before me, and restoring the displaced table. The dogs do right to be vigilant. Take a glass of wine?

No, thank you.

Not bitten, are you?

If I had been, I would have set my signet on the biter. Heathcliff’s countenance relaxed into a grin.

Come, come, he said, you are flurried, Mr. Lockwood. Here, take a little wine. Guests are so exceedingly rare in this house that I and my dogs, I am willing to own, hardly know how to receive them. Your health, sir?

I bowed and returned the pledge; beginning to perceive that it would be foolish to sit sulking for the misbehaviour of a pack of curs; besides, I felt loth to yield the fellow further amusement at my expense; since his humour took that turn. He—probably swayed by prudential consideration of the folly of offending a good tenant—relaxed a little in the laconic style of chipping off his pronouns and auxiliary verbs, and introduced what he supposed would be a subject of interest to me,—a discourse on the advantages and disadvantages of my present place of retirement. I found him very intelligent on the topics we touched; and before I went home, I was encouraged so far as to volunteer another visit to-morrow. He evidently wished no repetition of my intrusion. I shall go, notwithstanding. It is astonishing how sociable I feel myself compared with him.

Chapter 2

Yesterday afternoon set in misty and cold. I had half a mind to spend it by my study fire, instead of wading through heath and mud to Wuthering Heights. On coming up from dinner, however, (N.B.—I dine between twelve and one o’clock; the housekeeper, a matronly lady, taken as a fixture along with the house, could not, or would not, comprehend my request that I might be served at five)—on mounting the stairs with this lazy intention, and stepping into the room, I saw a servant-girl on her knees surrounded by brushes and coal-scuttles, and raising an infernal dust as she extinguished the flames with heaps of cinders. This spectacle drove me back immediately; I took my hat, and, after a four-miles’ walk, arrived at Heathcliff’s garden-gate just in time to escape the first feathery flakes of a snow-shower.

On that bleak hill-top the earth was hard with a black frost, and the air made me shiver through every limb. Being unable to remove the chain, I jumped over, and, running up the flagged causeway bordered with straggling gooseberry-bushes, knocked vainly for admittance, till my knuckles tingled and the dogs howled.

Wretched inmates! I ejaculated, mentally, you deserve perpetual isolation from your species for your churlish inhospitality. At least, I would not keep my doors barred in the day-time. I don’t care—I will get in! So resolved, I grasped the latch and shook it vehemently. Vinegar-faced Joseph projected his head from a round window of the barn.

What are ye for? he shouted. T’ maister’s down i’ t’ fowld. Go round by th’ end o’ t’ laith, if ye went to spake to him.

Is there nobody inside to open the door? I hallooed, responsively.

There’s nobbut t’ missis; and shoo’ll not oppen ’t an ye mak’ yer flaysome dins till neeght.

Why? Cannot you tell her whom I am, eh, Joseph?

Nor-ne me! I’ll hae no hend wi’t, muttered the head, vanishing.

The snow began to drive thickly. I seized the handle to essay another trial; when a young man without coat, and shouldering a pitchfork, appeared in the yard behind. He hailed me to follow him, and, after marching through a wash-house, and a paved area containing a coal-shed, pump, and pigeon-cot, we at length arrived in the huge, warm, cheerful apartment where I was formerly received. It glowed delightfully in the radiance of an immense fire, compounded of coal, peat, and wood; and near the table, laid for a plentiful evening meal, I was pleased to observe the missis, an individual whose existence I had never previously suspected. I bowed and waited, thinking she would bid me take a seat. She looked at me, leaning back in her chair, and remained motionless and mute.

Rough weather! I remarked. I’m afraid, Mrs. Heathcliff, the door must bear the consequence of your servants’ leisure attendance: I had hard work to make them hear me.

She never opened her mouth. I stared—she stared also: at any rate, she kept her eyes on me in a cool, regardless manner, exceedingly embarrassing and disagreeable.

Sit down, said the young man, gruffly. He’ll be in soon.

I obeyed; and hemmed, and called the villain Juno, who deigned, at this second interview, to move the extreme tip of her tail, in token of owning my acquaintance.

A beautiful animal! I commenced again. Do you intend parting with the little ones, madam?

They are not mine, said the amiable hostess, more repellingly than Heathcliff himself could have replied.

Ah, your favourites are among these? I continued, turning to an obscure cushion full of something like cats.

A strange choice of favourites! she observed scornfully.

Unluckily, it was a heap of dead rabbits. I hemmed once more, and drew closer to the hearth, repeating my comment on the wildness of the evening.

You should not have come out, she said, rising and reaching from the chimney-piece two of the painted canisters.

Her position before was sheltered from the light; now, I had a distinct view of her whole figure and countenance. She was slender, and apparently scarcely past girlhood: an admirable form, and the most exquisite little face that I have ever had the pleasure of beholding; small features, very fair; flaxen ringlets, or rather golden, hanging loose on her delicate neck; and eyes, had they been agreeable in expression, that would have been irresistible: fortunately for my susceptible heart, the only sentiment they evinced hovered between scorn and a kind of desperation, singularly unnatural to be detected there. The canisters were almost out of her reach; I made a motion to aid her; she turned upon me as a miser might turn if anyone attempted to assist him in counting his gold.

I don’t want your help, she snapped; I can get them for myself.

I beg your pardon! I hastened to reply.

Were you asked to tea? she demanded, tying an apron over her neat black frock, and standing with a spoonful of the leaf poised over the pot.

I shall be glad to have a cup, I answered.

Were you asked? she repeated.

No, I said, half smiling. You are the proper person to ask me.

She flung the tea back, spoon and all, and resumed her chair in a pet; her forehead corrugated, and her red under-lip pushed out, like a child’s ready to cry.

Meanwhile, the young man had slung on to his person a decidedly shabby upper garment, and, erecting himself before the blaze, looked down on me from the corner of his eyes, for all the world as if there were some mortal feud unavenged between us. I began to doubt whether he were a servant or not: his dress and speech were both rude, entirely devoid of the superiority observable in Mr. and Mrs. Heathcliff; his thick brown curls were rough and uncultivated, his whiskers encroached bearishly over his cheeks, and his hands were embrowned like those of a common labourer: still his bearing was free, almost haughty, and he showed none of a domestic’s assiduity in attending on the lady of the house. In the absence of clear proofs of his condition, I deemed it best to abstain from noticing his curious conduct; and, five minutes afterwards, the entrance of Heathcliff relieved me, in some measure, from my uncomfortable state.

You see, sir, I am come, according to promise! I exclaimed, assuming the cheerful; and I fear I shall be weather-bound for half an hour, if you can afford me shelter during that space.

Half an hour? he said, shaking the white flakes from his clothes; I wonder you should select the thick of a snow-storm to ramble about in. Do you know that you run a risk of being lost in the marshes? People familiar with these moors often miss their road on such evenings; and I can tell you there is no chance of a change at present.

Perhaps I can get a guide among your lads, and he might stay at the Grange till morning—could you spare me one?

No, I could not.

Oh, indeed! Well, then, I must trust to my own sagacity.

Umph!

Are you going to mak’ the tea? demanded he of the shabby coat, shifting his ferocious gaze from me to the young lady.

"Is he to have any?" she asked, appealing to Heathcliff.

Get it ready, will you? was the answer, uttered so savagely that I started. The tone in which the words were said revealed a genuine bad nature. I no longer felt inclined to call Heathcliff a capital fellow. When the preparations were finished, he invited me with—Now, sir, bring forward your chair. And we all, including the rustic youth, drew round the table: an austere silence prevailing while we discussed our meal.

I thought, if I had caused the cloud, it was my duty to make an effort to dispel it. They could not every day sit so grim and taciturn; and it was impossible, however ill-tempered they might be, that the universal scowl they wore was their every-day countenance.

It is strange, I began, in the interval of swallowing one cup of tea and receiving another—it is strange how custom can mould our tastes and ideas: many could not imagine the existence of happiness in a life of such complete exile from the world as you spend, Mr. Heathcliff; yet, I’ll venture to say, that, surrounded by your family, and with your amiable lady as the presiding genius over your home and heart—

My amiable lady! he interrupted, with an almost diabolical sneer on his face. Where is she—my amiable lady?

Mrs. Heathcliff, your wife, I mean.

Well, yes—oh, you would intimate that her spirit has taken the post of ministering angel, and guards the fortunes of Wuthering Heights, even when her body is gone. Is that it?

Perceiving myself in a blunder, I attempted to correct it. I might have seen there was too great a disparity between the ages of the parties to make it likely that they were man and wife. One was about forty: a period of mental vigour at which men seldom cherish the delusion of being married for love by girls: that dream is reserved for the solace of our declining years. The other did not look seventeen.

Then it flashed upon me—The clown at my elbow, who is drinking his tea out of a basin and eating his bread with unwashed hands, may be her husband: Heathcliff junior, of course. Here is the consequence of being buried alive: she has thrown herself away upon that boor from sheer ignorance that better individuals existed! A sad pity—I must beware how I cause her to regret her choice. The last reflection may seem conceited; it was not. My neighbour struck me as bordering on repulsive; I knew, through experience, that I was tolerably attractive.

Mrs. Heathcliff is my daughter-in-law, said Heathcliff, corroborating my surmise. He turned, as he spoke, a peculiar look in her direction: a look of hatred; unless he has a most perverse set of facial muscles that will not, like those of other people, interpret the language of his soul.

Ah, certainly—I see now: you are the favoured possessor of the beneficent fairy, I remarked, turning to my neighbour.

This was worse than before: the youth grew crimson, and clenched his fist, with every appearance of a meditated assault. But he seemed to recollect himself presently, and smothered the storm in a brutal curse, muttered on my behalf: which, however, I took care not to notice.

Unhappy in your conjectures, sir, observed my host; we neither of us have the privilege of owning your good fairy; her mate is dead. I said she was my daughter-in-law: therefore, she must have married my son.

And this young man is—

Not my son, assuredly.

Heathcliff smiled again, as if it were rather too bold a jest to attribute the paternity of that bear to him.

My name is Hareton Earnshaw, growled the other; and I’d counsel you to respect it!

I’ve shown no disrespect, was my reply, laughing internally at the dignity with which he announced himself.

He fixed his eye on me longer than I cared to return the stare, for fear I might be tempted either to box his ears or render my hilarity audible. I began to feel unmistakably out of place in that pleasant family circle. The dismal spiritual atmosphere overcame, and more than neutralised, the glowing physical comforts round me; and I resolved to be cautious how I ventured under those rafters a third time.

The business of eating being concluded, and no one uttering a word of sociable conversation, I approached a window to examine the weather. A sorrowful sight I saw: dark night coming down prematurely, and sky and hills mingled in one bitter whirl of wind and suffocating snow.

I don’t think it possible for me to get home now without a guide, I could not help exclaiming. The roads will be buried already; and, if they were bare, I could scarcely distinguish a foot in advance.

Hareton, drive those dozen sheep into the barn porch. They’ll be covered if left in the fold all night: and put a plank before them, said Heathcliff.

How must I do? I continued, with rising irritation.

There was no reply to my question; and on looking round I saw only Joseph bringing in a pail of porridge for the dogs, and Mrs. Heathcliff leaning over the fire, diverting herself with burning a bundle of matches which had fallen from the chimney-piece as she restored the tea-canister to its place. The former, when he had deposited his burden, took a critical survey of the room, and in cracked tones grated out—Aw wonder how yah can faishion to stand thear i’ idleness un war, when all on ’ems goan out! Bud yah’re a nowt, and it’s no use talking—yah’ll niver mend o’yer ill ways, but goa raight to t’ divil, like yer mother afore ye!

I imagined, for a moment, that this piece of eloquence was addressed to me; and, sufficiently enraged, stepped towards the aged rascal with an intention of kicking him out of the door. Mrs. Heathcliff, however, checked me by her answer.

You scandalous old hypocrite! she replied. Are you not afraid of being carried away bodily, whenever you mention the devil’s name? I warn you to refrain from provoking me, or I’ll ask your abduction as a special favour! Stop! look here, Joseph, she continued, taking a long, dark book from a shelf; I’ll show you how far I’ve progressed in the Black Art: I shall soon be competent to make a clear house of it. The red cow didn’t die by chance; and your rheumatism can hardly be reckoned among providential visitations!

Oh, wicked, wicked! gasped the elder; may the Lord deliver us from evil!

No, reprobate! you are a castaway—be off, or I’ll hurt you seriously! I’ll have you all modelled in wax and clay! and the first who passes the limits I fix shall—I’ll not say what he shall be done to—but, you’ll see! Go, I’m looking at you!

The little witch put a mock malignity into her beautiful eyes, and Joseph, trembling with sincere horror, hurried out, praying, and ejaculating wicked as he went. I thought her conduct must be prompted by a species of dreary fun; and, now that we were alone, I endeavoured to interest her in my distress.

Mrs. Heathcliff, I said earnestly, you must excuse me for troubling you. I presume, because, with that face, I’m sure you cannot help being good-hearted. Do point out some landmarks by which I may know my way home: I have no more idea how to get there than you would have how to get to London!

Take the road you came, she answered, ensconcing herself in a chair, with a candle, and the long book open before her. It is brief advice, but as sound as I can give.

Then, if you hear of me being discovered dead in a bog or a pit full of snow, your conscience won’t whisper that it is partly your fault?

How so? I cannot escort you. They wouldn’t let me go to the end of the garden wall.

"You! I should be sorry to ask you to cross the threshold, for my convenience, on such a night, I cried. I want you to tell me my way, not to show it: or else to persuade Mr. Heathcliff to give me a guide."

Who? There is himself, Earnshaw, Zillah, Joseph and I. Which would you have?

Are there no boys at the farm?

No; those are all.

Then, it follows that I am compelled to stay.

That you may settle with your host. I have nothing to do with it.

I hope it will be a lesson to you to make no more rash journeys on these hills, cried Heathcliff’s stern voice from the kitchen entrance. As to staying here, I don’t keep accommodations for visitors: you must share a bed with Hareton or Joseph, if you do.

I can sleep on a chair in this room, I replied.

No, no! A stranger is a stranger, be he rich or poor: it will not suit me to permit anyone the range of the place while I am off guard! said the unmannerly wretch.

With this insult my patience was at an end. I uttered an expression of disgust, and pushed past him into the yard, running against Earnshaw in my haste. It was so dark that I could not see the means of exit; and, as I wandered round, I heard another specimen of their civil behaviour amongst each other. At first the young man appeared about to befriend me.

I’ll go with him as far as the park, he said.

You’ll go with him to hell! exclaimed his master, or whatever relation he bore. And who is to look after the horses, eh?

A man’s life is of more consequence than one evening’s neglect of the horses: somebody must go, murmured Mrs. Heathcliff, more kindly than I expected.

Not at your command! retorted Hareton. If you set store on him, you’d better be quiet.

Then I hope his ghost will haunt you; and I hope Mr. Heathcliff will never get another tenant till the Grange is a ruin, she answered, sharply.

Hearken, hearken, shoo’s cursing on ’em! muttered Joseph, towards whom I had been steering.

He sat within earshot, milking the cows by the light of a lantern, which I seized unceremoniously, and, calling out that I would send it back on the morrow, rushed to the nearest postern.

Maister, maister, he’s staling t’ lanthern! shouted the ancient, pursuing my retreat. Hey, Gnasher! Hey, dog! Hey Wolf, holld him, holld him!

On opening the little door, two hairy monsters flew at my throat, bearing me down, and extinguishing the light; while a mingled guffaw from Heathcliff and Hareton put the copestone on my rage and humiliation. Fortunately, the beasts seemed more bent on stretching their paws, and yawning, and flourishing their tails, than devouring me alive; but they would suffer no resurrection, and I was forced to lie till their malignant masters pleased to deliver me: then, hatless and trembling with wrath, I ordered the miscreants to let me out—on their peril to keep me one minute longer—with several incoherent threats of retaliation that, in their indefinite depth of virulency, smacked of King Lear.

The vehemence of my agitation brought on a copious bleeding at the nose, and still Heathcliff laughed, and still I scolded. I don’t know what would have concluded the scene, had there not been one person at hand rather more rational than myself, and more benevolent than my entertainer. This was Zillah, the stout housewife; who at length issued forth to inquire into the nature of the uproar. She thought that some of them had been laying violent hands on me; and, not daring to attack her master, she turned her vocal artillery against the younger scoundrel.

Well, Mr. Earnshaw, she cried, I wonder what you’ll have agait next? Are we going to murder folk on our very door-stones? I see this house will never do for me—look at t’ poor lad, he’s fair choking! Wisht, wisht; you mun’n’t go on so. Come in, and I’ll cure that: there now, hold ye still.

With these words she suddenly splashed a pint of icy water down my neck, and pulled me into the kitchen. Mr. Heathcliff followed, his accidental merriment expiring quickly in his habitual moroseness.

I was sick exceedingly, and dizzy, and faint; and thus compelled perforce to accept lodgings under his roof. He told Zillah to give me a glass of brandy, and then passed on to the inner room; while she condoled with me on my sorry predicament, and having obeyed his orders, whereby I was somewhat revived, ushered me to bed.

Chapter 3

While leading the way upstairs, she recommended that I should hide the candle, and not make a noise; for her master had an odd notion about the chamber she would put me in, and never let anybody lodge there willingly. I asked the reason. She did not know, she answered: she had only lived there a year or two; and they had so many queer goings on, she could not begin to be curious.

Too stupefied to be curious myself, I fastened my door and glanced round for the bed. The whole furniture consisted of a chair, a clothes-press, and a large oak case, with squares cut out near the top resembling coach windows. Having approached this structure, I looked inside, and perceived it to be a singular sort of old-fashioned couch, very conveniently designed to obviate the necessity for every member of the family having a room to himself. In fact, it formed a little closet, and the ledge of a window, which it enclosed, served as a table. I slid back the panelled sides, got in with my light, pulled them together again, and felt secure against the vigilance of Heathcliff, and every one else.

The ledge, where I placed my candle, had a few mildewed books piled up in one corner; and it was covered with writing scratched on the paint. This writing, however, was nothing but a name repeated in all kinds of characters, large and small—Catherine Earnshaw, here and there varied to Catherine Heathcliff, and then again to Catherine Linton.

In vapid listlessness I leant my head against the window, and continued spelling over Catherine Earnshaw—Heathcliff—Linton, till my eyes closed; but they had not rested five minutes when a glare of white letters started from the dark, as vivid as spectres—the air swarmed with Catherines; and rousing myself to dispel the obtrusive name, I discovered my candle-wick reclining on one of the antique volumes, and perfuming the place with an odour of roasted calf-skin. I snuffed it off, and, very ill at ease under the influence of cold and lingering nausea, sat up and spread open the injured tome on my knee. It was a Testament, in lean type, and smelling dreadfully musty: a fly-leaf bore the inscription—Catherine Earnshaw, her book, and a date some quarter of a century back. I shut it, and took up another and another, till I had examined all. Catherine’s library was select, and its state of dilapidation proved it to have been well used, though not altogether for a legitimate purpose: scarcely one chapter had escaped, a pen-and-ink commentary—at least the appearance of one—covering every morsel of blank that the printer had left. Some were detached sentences; other parts took the form of a regular diary, scrawled in an unformed, childish hand. At the top of an extra page (quite a treasure, probably, when first lighted on) I was greatly amused to behold an excellent caricature of my friend Joseph,—rudely, yet powerfully sketched. An immediate interest kindled within me for the unknown Catherine, and I began forthwith to decipher her faded hieroglyphics.

An awful Sunday, commenced the paragraph beneath. "I wish my father were back again. Hindley is a detestable substitute—his conduct to Heathcliff is atrocious—H. and I are going to rebel—we took our initiatory step this evening.

"All day had been flooding with rain; we

[nordie_2 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I have read this book several times now and have always been disappointed with it. (I've read Jane Eyre several times as well, and have gone through hating it to quite liking it, so am always prepared to change my mind about a book).I simply dont understand why people love this book, and Heathcliff/Cathy relationship in particular. I think it's overrated and gets far to much attention, especially when considering there are other Bronte books out there that should be given more attention than they do currently.

[pennsylady · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A review.....still intriguing....still crazy after all these years.Don't forget the 1992 film adaptation (Ralph Fiennes and Juliette Binoche)A perfect adjunct to this classical read.It gives an extraordinary vitality to Heathcliff and Cathy

[brendaklaassen · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I listened to this book because I had read it when I was in school and thought I might get something new out of it by listening to it. This author writes a story that shakes my brain as much as driving a bike down a rough gravel road shakes the body. I found that I had to really force myself to pay attention because my mind really wanted to daydream. I did fall asleep twice and had to backtrack the next time I listened so I could figure out the plot of the story. I don't think I will be reading this book again.

[bohemima · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I read this in conjunction with Frankenstein, which provided a nice contrast in a study of the effects of rejection and cruelty.Even though I admire Bronte’s writing, and acknowledge that this is a powerfully emotional book, I don’t like it. This isn’t the passionate love story that it appears to be. Instead it’s a tale of sick obsession, revenge, and hatred. The ending, while fitting, is weak. And yet...would I read it again? Most likely. It’s a shame that Emily wrote only this one book. She had a very great talent.

[comfypants · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A man obsessed with his childhood friend spends his lifetime destroying her family.3/4 (Good).This is a wild ride. It's a continuous stream of Big, Dramatic Scenes. There's no protagonist, and consequently no satisfying story arc, which normally would be guaranteed to make me dislike a book. But in this case, it works somehow.

[feelinglistless · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Piecing my way through the narrative fog of Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights with its many layers of narrators, I was reminded of the found footage genre of films, in which the viewer’s entire understanding of the story is whatever is visually made apparent to them through the first person gaze of the whoever’s holding the camera in the fictional world and then the film’s editor, a figure who sits between that world and our reality. Everything we know about the love story is filtered through the recollections of Lockwood and Nelly and others, characters who Bronte employs to imply that Heathcliffe and Cathy and their decedents exist in a subjectively cruel, sadistic place cut off from a more benign reality. All are apparently reliable narrators, but throughout I couldn’t help a nagging suspicion, and that like The Blair Witch Project et al, there are multiple layers of fiction at play.

[hskey-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

With some books, I'll read them and get the tiniest notion that I may be able to write a novel one day.
Others, I marvel at and am impressed with the author's work.
Books like Wuthering Heights make me feel that Emily Bronte and I are not of the same species. I can't get over she wrote this when she was 20 years old, living in borderline isolation with very little education.
I liked this more than some other classics I've tried - it's weird, it's creepy, it's slow, it's a romance, it's a gothic horror, it's a lot of things that I'm not clever enough to analyze and put in a review here. Lines like "You said I killed you - haunt me, then" are a delight. I have no idea what to make of the narrators, but I felt as miserable, dreary and imprisoned as much as every character present, for better or worse.

[crsyshfr21 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Hate Cathy and Heathcliff was a fool.

[smashbasile · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Well. That was. Something. I can't say I hated it. There were parts that I found interesting, but on the whole I find myself wondering what so many people love about this book. Maybe they don't actually love it...

I found it to be depressing, often distressing and hard to follow (which I blame on the structure of the story). I guess it's just another "classic" checked off my list.

[thebooksofwrath · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Wuthering Heights is classic literature's crowning achievement about spiteful people doing spiteful things to each other, unrestrained vengefulness forever untamed from front to back. There isn't a friendly character in the funereal cast and there's nothing to love about anybody or anything, and it's absolutely brilliant. Brontë teases you with a flossy romance dipped in mud and mire and then turns it on its head and and plunges you down in the marshland until she drowns you in it. Heathcliff is a harrowing villain with whom the reader develops a love-hate relationship, much like Catherine Earnshaw's own emotional volatility, but can you really blame him for who he becomes? A novel full of gothic tragedy and morbid mystery, this is a tight and solid read which safeguards its standing amongst my most beloved novels.

[johanna.florez21 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

All I feel like saying now is that the English weird me out. She married her first cousin? And then when he died, she married her other first cousin?

Also everyone has the same four names so it gets a little confusing at times.

And the inheritance laws seem to be taken for granted but I'm unfamiliar with them.

Ah, the British. Why do they write so well?

[mkh43 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

God, everyone in this book is so insufferable.

[suesbooks · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I was disappointed in this classic. I was interested in the book, but the characters were presented as such extremes. This was a horrible love story, not a caring one.

[m.belljackson · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

ONE STAR less than perfect due to the horror of the dog hangings,

I could understand Heathcliff's desire for revenge after the abuse he suffered for so many years
and could relate to his passion for the love he had lost, but, the dog - NEVER!

Ellen (Nelly) is the only likable character:

Linton and his sister deserve each other.
Heathcliff is filled with hatred, vengeance, jealousy, and remains selfish and just plain mean,
as does his Great Love, Catherine who is also a self-indulgent, spiteful, unpredictable, and a hysterical liar.
They deserve each other.

Despite not connecting with the characters, Wuthering Heights is a wildly engrossing tale,
complete, in the 1943 Random House edition, with equally wildly imaginative and evocative
wood-cut illustrations by Fritz Eichenberg.

[kayis813-163108 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book was much different than I expected. I wasn't sure whether or not I liked it for a couple of days, because I'm not used to liking a book that doesn't make me happy, but I found myself really wanting to see how it ended and decided that meant I did like it. The story was told very well and was engaging and felt everything I think the author was intending for me to feel. I didn't really root for any character which is another thing that made me unsure if I liked it or not since I love character driven stories but the characters, while not good people are very interesting.

[kayla.krantz · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I'm a fan of classics, but not so much one of romance so I went into this book a little hesitant. I came out very pleasantly surprised though. This is an amazing book with both a complicated and fulfilling plot. My only grievance would be the names of the characters. Sometimes in the piece the similarity of the names would get confusing to the point where I would have to reread sections to clarify exactly which characters I was dealing with. Other than that, I loved this book! It's one of my new favorites.

[scottcholstad · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I don't know. This is another "classic" I was told I had to like, but honestly, it's never done much for me. Frankly, I'm not a fan of the period and if I had to choose, I really prefer Charlotte over Emily... For those who love this era's literature, recommended. Not my cup of tea though...

[reemaayana · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Well, a novel that does not reside in utopia, a book that surrounds itself with reality, a damn dark reality with no perfection all messed up yet successful in giving a positive vibes. This is my first classic novel in which I found the essence of disturbance and stress that well connotes the problem of today's generation, who are ready to face any consequences any treatment for sake of their own good. Kudos and respect to the author, Emily Bronte who presented such a 'monstrous' narrative way back during the era when class and perfection was prevailing in society.
Catherine and Heathcliff are dreadful, they literally act without thinking about the consequences and these two leads the theme of the story amazingly-- two families are indirectly linked with each other and how Catherine and Heathcliff's love story ruined everything.
The strength of the book is its imperfections which sounded so damn perfect. 4.5/5 will be my rate. A must read. And yes, last but not the least Wuthering itself means gusty...♥ And I personally believe such story is actually difficult to frame. Like, how a dark world was carrying a light of hope. How the two misleading characters were leading the story ground so firmly? Simply, you can hate it, love it but cannot ignore it.

[amanda4242_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

300-odd pages of unpleasant people being hateful to each other.

[antao-3 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

(Original Review, 1981-01-02)



The “dog scene” does not exist in the book as some sort of sick foreplay; it’s actually an extremely clever piece of writing. Besides showing Heathcliff total disregard for Isabella, it’s a reality check for those girls with romantic notions about Byronesque “bad boys”. Isabella is so infatuated, that she cannot understand, although he flaunts it on her face ( that’s what makes the scene interesting) that what she takes for intensity and romantic darkness is actually plain cruelty. Isabella is selective in what she chooses to see, she wants to run away with this man everyone calls dangerous and not even the fact he hangs her pet dog stops her on her tracks. As we will see later in the book she does eventually find out he’s actually a plain domestic abuser, but by then she has been totally crushed.
It’s not Emily’s fault people see Heathcliff as some sort of romantic hero, just like Isabella readers have been choosing what they want to highlight or disregard.

The book has been adapted many times - mostly very badly and there a misunderstanding that this is a romantic novel so people are confused and disappointed in it. It’s also been lampooned many times. Actually it’s an extraordinary brilliant observation of the effect of neglect in early childhood, long before child psychiatry. There is no whitewashing and the damage done as an infant to Heathcliffe is permanent despite the kindness of the Earnshaws. He destroys what he loves and others with him. The character of Nelli Dean is also brilliantly drawn. She understands more than anyone but is forced to observe on the sidelines as a servant as the family and then another family is pulled into the tragedy. I love the story of her refusal to accommodate her precious piano pupils play time and her preference to the dog.

The Brontës lived though a traumatic childhood and survived a boarding school which sounded like a pro type for the workhouses. Haworth at the time had greater social deprivation than the east end of London, with all the alcoholism, drugs, disease and violence that went with it and their brother brought home daily. Orphans and abandoned children were bought like slaves from London to work in the mill towns and as vicarage daughters were expected to help out with the night schools their father had organised. They weren’t sheltered - they saw the lot which is why no doubt Emily Brontë drew the character of an abandoned orphan child so well. Emily Brontë refused to admit to her consumption and was kneading bread the morning she died. Like Elizabeth, first she remained standing for as long as possible only finally lying down just before she died.

Child neglect, for whatever reason, it was one of the themes in “Wuthering Heights” that stroked a chord with me, and I do not think it’s explored enough. The fact that Heathcliff decided to replicate his own abuse by inflicting it on Hareton, with the expectation that he would turn out as “twisted” as him as form of vengeance is quite interesting. Even more interesting is the fact Emily chose to make that experiment a failed one; even before that advent of child psychology, she clearly understood that the experience of abuse and neglect is unique to the individual, and the way people react to it unpredictable. That’s something that bewildered Heathcliff, and in a way, the realisation that he could not make people as detestable as he was, even though they have also been victimised, contributed to, by the end to make him him even more unstable.

[serenova_phoenix · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Had to read this in high school. Was not impressed. Honestly? Just found the whole thing depressing and a slog to get through. I can appreciate the skill that went into writing it and I understand it's a classic, but I personally didn't enjoy it.

[jon1lambert · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Yet another book that I was sure I had read in full as a child but didn't. How was it possible for a reclusive figure to write such a book before the age of 30? How did she understand the passions and emotions that drive people to extreme behaviour and actions? Once I had sorted out the various Catherines, the Earnshaws and the Lintons, and some Yorkshire dialect, I became engrossed. The remoteness and isolation of the setting provide the ideal claustrophobic context for the passions to burst forth and wreak havoc. Yet the passions and emotions are universal.

[gypsysmom_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Despite this being an acknowledged classic that shows up on such lists as 1001 books to read before you die I was not overly impressed with this book. I think the main problem for me was how easily everyone resorted to violence. Was this really indicative of life in the rural reaches of England in the early 1800s?

The Earnshaw and the Linton families lived near to each other in Yorkshire and were the gentry of the neighbourhood. Both families had one son and one daughter but Mr. Earnshaw added a foundling whom he called Heathcliff to his family. Heathcliff and Cathy Earnshaw formed a deep friendship which became almost monomaniacal as they grew older. Yet Cathy decided to marry Edgar Linton which caused Heathcliff to retaliate by eloping with Isabella Linton. When Heathcliff and Isabella returned to Wuthering Heights Cathy was very ill. Edgar forbade Heathcliff from seeing Cathy but Heathcliff would not be put off. Cathy died the next day but did succeed in giving birth to a daughter who was named Catherine. Heathcliff had managed to acquire all the land associated with Wuthering Heights by gambling with Hindley Earnshaw. Through his marriage to Isabella he would gain the Linton property as well since Edgar did not have a male heir. Isabella soon ran away from Heathcliff and Wuthering Heights. She gave birth to a son, Linton, and kept him with her until her death. Then Linton came under the parentage of Heathcliff who had nothing but contempt for this sickly child. Nevertheless he was determined to marry his son to Cathy's daughter and he carried this out by kidnapping Catherine and her maid. Catherine and Linton were married but it is hard to believe there was any consummation of the marriage since Linton was so ill. Linton died shortly after Catherine's father which left Catherine to the mercy of Heathcliff. Somehow Catherine fell in love with her other male cousin, Hareton Earnshaw, who was uneducated and brutish but quite smitten with Catherine. Heathcliff died and was still so much in love with Cathy that he insisted on being buried by the side of her grave with the sides of their two coffins knocked out so they could rest eternally together.

I know this book is supposed to be an example of a great love affair but I just thought both Cathy and Heathcliff were bordering on insanity. And Heathcliff had no redeeming qualities as far as I am concerned. He was violent, sadistic, selfish and miserly. What did Cathy see in him? And how did a sheltered young lady come up with such a character? Since she died soon after the book was published there was never any explanation fom Emily Bronte.

[philsyphe · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed my second visit to “Wuthering Heights” more than the first. This is partly because my first read was spread out over 4 –6 weeks (I think in 2005, though it could’ve been a couple of years either way), whereas my second read took 6 days, commencing from Emily Brontë’s 200th birthday, which is why I thought I’d give it another look.

I was also less enthused during my first read because I'd previously watched numerous adaptations of “Wuthering Heights” over the years, with all but one (which I saw after reading the novel) skipping much, if not all, of the story’s second half.

In short, my expectations were that this tale would revolve around Cathy and Heathcliff’s unique relationship. In a sense it does (won’t add more in case I spoil things for anyone), but from about halfway through, we see other characters emerge who rarely appear in most screen adaptations.

Another pre-reading influence was Kate Bush's song “Wuthering Heights”, which I’ve always loved, and this also made me think the main theme would be Heathcliff and Cathy’s passion for each other. Therefore, during my first read I felt a little disappointed that their relationship wasn’t as emphasised as expected.

When I approached “Wuthering Heights” for a second time, I knew what to expect, though after such a long gap since I first read it, I’d naturally forgotten a lot, especially events in the second half. This is by no means a beautiful love story, but rather a bleak tale of sadness, loneliness, loss, cruelty, and misery, yet it’s not entirely devoid of hope.

I admire how the author structured the narrative. It’s multi-first person, predominantly told by Nelly and Mr Lockwood, with smaller parts filled in by other characters. It all blends in very well together, and what makes the narrative’s construction even more impressive is that it’s not strictly linear. This type of thing can often prove messy, but Emily Brontë handles it smoothly.

One review I saw criticises “Wuthering Heights” for have no sense of place. This I must disagree with. In fact, I consider the sense of place as one of the book’s great strengths. I could vividly “see” the moors, the landscape, plus the rooms at the Heights and at the Grange.

My only real criticism is Joseph’s dialogue. Although I’m a Yorkshireman myself, much of Joseph’s broad dialect took some understanding – and the odd phrase I couldn’t fathom out – and overall his dialogue really slows the narrative down. I imagine anyone outside of Yorkshire – and even more so anyone outside of England – would have immense trouble understanding Joseph.

An interesting aspect to this story is of course the supernatural element. I suspect anyone who hasn’t read this book has at least seen an adaptation where, at the end, Cathy and Heathcliff reunite after death.

I was actually disappointed this wasn’t developed to a similar extent in the book, as it’s something special in the well-done adaptations where we see these thwarted lovers reunited. In the novel, however, their reunion is more of a casual reference. It's still a poignant moment – or moments – though, and reading it for the second time I appreciated it more than the first.

We also see Mr Lockwood endure a supernatural encounter at a window early on, which is one of my favourite scenes, and an important one.

I don’t always appreciate the supernatural seeping in to novels that are essentially “real life”, but in this case, the supernatural parts not only feel believable, they also add hope to a tragic story. Without the afterlife moments, “Wuthering Heights” wouldn’t hit the mark in the same way. The ending would’ve been too depressing. As it is, we’re left with hope for the living and for the dead.

While I feel Heathcliff and Cathy’s story is the novel most appealing element, I do like the story which revolves around the new characters featured in the second half, and how they interact with Heathcliff’s deceptive and despicable nature. In fact, my favourite character is the younger Catherine. She, along with Hareton and Isabella, are the three who I feel the most sympathy towards.

Most of the misery in this story stems from Heathcliff’s actions, though the likes of Hindley and Joseph don’t exactly spread light into the world. It’s hard to feel sympathy for many of the characters because of their selfishness and unkindness.

It’s debateable whether Cathy is more selfish than Heathcliff. Despite Heathcliff affecting more people’s lives for the worst, much – if not all – of this is through Cathy and her brother Hindley’s treatment of Heathcliff during his youth. While Hindley causes Heathcliff physical and mental torment, Cathy's brand of mental anguish is surely worse. I don’t think Cathy does this deliberately, as she’s too self-absorbed to realise how her motives will devastate Heathcliff.

The younger Catherine comes across as selfish and haughty many times, but I like her because deep down she has a good heart and she’s a bright character in a dark world. She’s horrible to poor Hareton, who deserves better, yet she goes out of her way to help Linton, who doesn’t deserve her attention.

Linton, in my opinion, is the most detestable character of all. Granted, some of his behaviour is owing to Heathcliff’s influence, but at heart Linton is a spineless, self-obsessed creature.

Heathcliff, whatever you think of him, is a fascinating character. The whole story pretty much revolves around his treatment of others, and how others treat or perceive him. He has that “lost soul” element about him, with his origins shrouded in mystery. I commend the author for creating such a vivid and memorable character.

I originally rated “Wuthering Heights” four stars when I added it to my Goodreads shelf in 2013. This was based on reading it circa 2005. After finishing it again in August 2018, I felt four stars was a fair rating; however, the characters and various scenes from the book have stayed with in the subsequent days.

Not many novels have this type of potency to “haunt” me, so on reflection, I feel “Wuthering Heights” deserves five stars.

[amaliagavea · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

How can I find and put together the suitable words and write a review about one of the most iconic creations in World Literature? One of those books that provoke such intense feelings that either you worship them or you utterly hate them. There is no middle ground. Every year, I revisit Wuthering Heights for two reasons. First, it is one of my personal Christmas traditions and secondly, I prepare extracts to use in class for my intermediate level students. This year, I finally felt confident enough to write a text. I will not call it a review, but a summary of what this masterpiece means for me, what I feel each time I gaze upon its title.

I was 12 when my mother made me a special gift. (I have a mother that gave me a book about self-destructive love and a father that gave me Crime and Punishment a year later. I know, they rock!) It was a thick volume with a dark cover. A cover as black as the night scene it depicted. A young couple running in the moors against the wind, and a black, foreboding mansion looming in the background. To this day, that cherished Greek edition of Emily's only novel is the most beautiful I've ever seen. I read it in a single day. I remember it was a windy day, a summer torrent rain that lasted all afternoon. It left me speechless. It shaped me. It shaped my reading preferences, it shaped my love for eerie, dark, doomed, haunting stories with twisted anti-heroes. It even shaped the choice of my profession.

When I was 15, one of the best teachers I've ever had gave us a project. She divided us into groups and asked us to make a presentation of our favourite book. She put me in a group with two classmates. Such kind and charming souls they were but would never open a book if their lives depended on it. I didn't care, I was happy because I'd get to choose the book. We left our teacher crying buckets in the classroom, marking a heroic A+ on our papers. During the 3rd year in university, we had to complete individual assignments. I'll let you guess the theme and the book I chose. My professor had to interrupt me at some point, kindly but firmly. ''Yes, thank you, Amalia, this is great, but there are others waiting, you know.'' Were they? Anyway, you get the point. My level of obsession with this novel equal Heathcliff's obsession with Cathy.

Emily Brontë's novel may not be for everyone. It doesn't matter. Nothing is for everyone. But, she has created an eternal tale -or nightmare- of a love that is destructive, dark, twisted and stranger than all the other sweet, lovey-dovey stories that have been written. She has created one of the most iconic couples in Literature, she has provided the first and finest example of the Anti-hero in the face of Heathcliff. She has ruined many girls' expectations, because who wouldn't want to be loved as fiercely as Cathy was? (For years, my notion of the ideal man was Ralph Fiennes as Heathcliff in the 1992 film. The best adaptation of the novel, with Juliette Binoche as Cathy) How many writers who have written only one novel can claim to have accomplished all these?

One of the reasons I became a teacher was to have the opportunity to teach this book. It is my greatest satisfaction when I see its impact on my teenage students. They are familiar with the bleak and twisted tales of our times, nothing shocks them anymore. They love it unanimously, it is a rare case where boys and girls love the same book equally. So, mission accomplished.

''I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!'' For me, this book is my soul. It lies there, making the question ''What is your favourite book?'' the easiest ever.

P.S. Please, God, when I die, put me in a sector where I can meet Emily. You can keep Shakespeare, Austin, Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. I prefer long talks with a disturbed, fragile, wild girl...

[olivia_atlet_writer · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Very few novels have intrigued me as much as "Wuthering Heights" by Emily Brontë has, and I have read many great books in my life. It captures a significant theme of the Victorian Era, one that so many writers chose to overlook: death, destruction, and the melancholy gardens we sow.
Among other authors, Emily Brontë transformed the faux pas of a bad ending into an approachable- nay controversial- subject. Her novel helped revolutionize the overall tone of pre-contemporary literature.
“Wuthering Heights” was originally published in 1847, and authentically captures daily life in that time-period. There are scenes that many of us recognize as being entirely victorian: maids and manservants, ruffled dresses, and the diction of their everyday conversation; however, drops of reality sneak into this realistic portrayal of life as it was in the 1800s. Prejudice, abuse; premature death, hysteria; unseen killers hidden in the walls and beauty products.
Each flaw has a story that has finally revealed by scientists with knowledge of lead and formaldehyde. In just the same way, every character has a purpose... which is why less than twenty people can be seen from the beginning to the end. Intentionality reeves in between the binding of this enthralling novel.
"Wuthering Heights" is steeped in melancholy and draped in veils of woe. Readers follow Heathcliff across the moors of the UK. His story is much different than the romantic tale of “Pride and Prejudice”, where two people fall in love and eventually marry. Instead, the story is founded upon turmoil, which leads to inevitable failure, though it brazes the mark so often throughout its pages. It crafts an understanding of the phrase "too little, too late", which becomes the main focus of the entire story.
Heathcliff did not stir this on his own, at least not entirely; he is abused and neglected after his adoptive father passes, outcasted and named a "g*psy" and "bastard" due to his uncertain heritage. He resents most of his house mates, excluding the girl who opened- and tore- his heart: Catherine Earnshaw.
Readers learn and discover the truth about Heathcliff through memories recalled by Nelly, the house maid, a majority of the time. By the end, one is left wondering whether they pity, love, or hate Heathcliff, leaving many with a sense of familiar dread (this time, in literature rather than reality). The purposeful writing of Brontë is revealed again and again, but never more so than when one analyzes her incredible skill for building characters.
This book is disturbing at times, and I admit it; but this aspect adds depth and truth to an otherwise perfect novel. It has become my favourite book, and one I will recommend to others as long as I have strength to speak. The year that I first read it was the year I reread it 15-16 other times. It truly has a certain magnetism that pulled me towards it, and for that reason, I give it a 5 star rating.

[nx74defiant · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It was hard going at first. Everyone is so unlikeable. I thought a knew the story, so it was a surprise that when Catherine died it was only the half way point. I think it is not a romance. Instead it is a tragedy.

[catzkc · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Alas, I don't think this one is for me. Third try, this time I got to page 70. Seems like a study on how people can manipulate each other. I don't have the energy to bear all the misery in what I've just read, let alone all 300 pages.

[cecrow · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Dark and brooding, melodramatic; where I've found works by Dickens and Austen and Charlotte Bronte to be pleasant surprises, this was not. Its first half was nearly unbearably depressing, the second only somewhat improved. This would be the wrong classic to share with someone who dislikes the idea of reading any but will give one a try.

I vaguely understood Heathcliff and Catherine formed the centre of this drama, and that their romance would go wrong in some way. That wasn't entirely off, but I'd no longer call this novel a romance. It is more about revenge and spite, albeit with love a central driver, on the wild and misty moors where the setting matches the bleakness of these characters' lives.

Wuthering Heights is critically praised for its nested narration, but I didn't care for being trapped into Mrs. Dean's perspective. These unpleasant people might have been more appealing had we gotten to know them from the inside, but we're never afforded that view. Consequently I found them mostly cruel, naïve or self-centered. Emily Bronte was not an author to shy away from the darker side of people's characters, dressing them up as Dickens might have. Here the worst in people is laid bare and given full command of the story. That makes it 'refreshingly different' from reading her contemporaries ... if by 'refreshing' we mean a blast of cold air.

[lgandt · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Have to say I liked the black & white film better.

I went into this really wanting to fall in love with Heathcliff, it just didn't happen and I can usually find the best in any vampire or Phantom of the Opera, downtrodden misunderstood victim that no one understands.

I just could not find any redeeming qualities in him. Or any of the other characters either.

I dare say Bronte had a bit of trouble keeping to character with Hareton, (view spoiler)

I understand Heathcliffe wanted his revenge, but frankly his cruelty got a bit just out of hand.

I will just stick with the Hollywood lite version of this one.

It is a brilliant book, I will say that.

The using of some of the same names did get a bit confusing in parts though.