“May you not rest, as long as I am living. You said I killed you – haunt me, then.”
The 1847 classic, Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, follows Lockwood, the new tenant of Thrushcross Grange on the bleak Yorkshire moors, who is forced to seek shelter one night at Wuthering Heights, the home of his landlord. There he discovers the history of the tempestuous events that took place years before: of the intense passion between the foundling Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshaw, and her betrayal of him. As Heathcliff’s bitterness and vengeance is visited upon the next generation, their innocent heirs must struggle to escape the legacy of the past.
Sometimes I really connect with a classic. Other times, I don’t see what all the historical acclaim was for. Wuthering Heights, for me, sadly fell into that second category.
This was the kind of book that I feel like I got more from by reading the chapter synopsis than I did from reading the book itself. Sometimes classics do need re-reading for this reason, but I’m not sure I’m tempted to give it a second shot.
The first part of the book did intrigue me and I was almost convinced of the relationships and brooding tension. But then I felt like so little happened in the second part that my interest quickly evaporated again.
I struggled to feel the connection between Heathcliff and Cathy, the gloominess of the Yorkshire moors, or of the threat of Cathy’s lingering presence. These were the three things that I wanted from this book, and instead all I could feel was the miserable attitude of every single character.
It’s safe to say this one wasn’t for me, but at least it’s one that I can tick off my TBR!
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