Set in the English Moors, year 1801, a tale erupts with the velocity of a volcano and the sentiment of the heart. A passionately exquisite read, lending a hand in the true moral convictions of those who love and avoid it. Venegance swores as the love between Catherine and Heathcliffe grows, only to end, perhaps in a way that could have been inspired only by Shakespeare.
Yet, as the withering world of Wuthering Heights carries on, the reprecussions of an undying love are still felt, a lingering prejudice. This novel is chilling in how animalistically cold and impulsive humans actually are. All characters feels the shake of this emotional hurricane, and all roles, even including the narrator Nelly Dean (who aims to be impartial) are forced into this reflexive biased. Not too much more can be said on this without giving away the plot, sadly enough.
Wuthering Heights is an intellectual read, a looking glass into the lifestyles moral indoctrination aims to purify. And for being Bronte’s only novel, it is one that will dwell in the archeives of greatness for the eternity of mankind. Gothic in theme and highly romanticized, this epic tale of emotional ghosts and passionate love, is perhaps, one ahead of it’s time; or one best left on paper.
The wordcraft is elegant and precocious, tangiable and engimatic, and may take some deciphering from those unfamiliar with Old English. Nontheless, this novel isn’t about simply riding the storm out, so much as learning to dance in the rain.