by Emily Brontë
“He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”
“If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn’t love as much in eighty years as I could in a day.”
Yeah, I love this book too much to feature just one quote. And considering that this is the only “love story” I have ever read of my own accord, and truly and certainly loved, I suppose it is excusable. The combination of the strength and the simplicity of those words is definitely the most potent I have ever encountered.
To be honest, I have never been particularly fond of romantic stories. The whiny characters, the lethargic pace of the narrative, the unnecessarily drawn out plot-lines, ending with either the couple conquering all obstacles and living happily ever after, or with one of them dying and the other one narrative their story… Ugh!
However, as far as I can say, with my limited experience, one would probably not describe Wuthering Heights as romantic anyway… Unless one finds SRK romantic in Darr, perhaps…
The thing that I absolutely love about this book is, most certainly, the dark, passionate, all-consuming brand of love displayed by its main characters, which is beautifully contrasted by the cold, unforgiving moors of Yorkshire.
Imagine drinking a thick, dark, chocolate shake from an ice-cold, steel mug, and you’d understand…
Thrushcross Grange, as described in the book, would make a wonderful for one who enjoys the cold solitude of the moors. Seems like a nice place to just sit and keep writing…
For everyone that prefers their love dark, this book is definitely a must-read. For everyone else, do try it in small but frequent doses. You will grow to love it.
Fair warning, the first three chapters are fairly dull.
You can get Wuthering Heights for free, here:
That is all, for tonight.
It is probably noteworthy that Emily Brontë wrote only one book, and passed away just a year after it was first published, having rejected medical aid. Her last audible words, said to elder sister, Charlotte Brontë, were, “If you will send for a doctor, I will see him now.”
It was, however, already too late…