I
saw a very interesting blog about Emily Bronte's 'Wuthering Heights'
today https://stewartstaffordblog.wordpress.com/2016/10/15/wuthering-heights-its-influence-on-vampire-and-popular-culture/ and it brought back my feelings
when reading this story about eight years ago. It's a great
book, but not one I enjoyed, it was more an experience of getting pulled
in and absorbed by its strange, dark, moody, tragic, passionate, and
dramatic world. It haunted me continually during the week I read it,
even encroaching into my dreams. If I'd had a wild, windy moor
to forlornly wander onto (donning a flowing cape), I would have done
so.
"My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath...I am Heathcliff - he's always, always in my mind...as my own being".
"And what was it that had suggested the tremendous tumult...Merely, the branch of a fir-tree that touched my lattice as the blast wailed by, and rattled its dry cones against the panes!... This time I remembered I was lying in the oak closet and I heard distinctly the gusty wind, and the driving of the snow; I heard, also, the fir-bough repeat its teasing sound, and ascribed it to the right cause: but it annoyed me so much, that I resolved to silence it, if possible; and I thought, I rose and endeavoured to unhasp the casement...'I must stop it, nevertheless!' I muttered, knocking my knuckles through the glass, and stretching an arm out to seize the importunate branch: instead of which, my fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand! The intense horror of nightmare came over me; I tried to draw back my arm, but, the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed, Let me in-let me in!"
Charlotte Bronte wrote that: "Wuthering Heights was hewn in a wild workshop, with simple tools, out of homely materials. The statuary found a granite block on a solitary moor...with time and labour the crag took human shape, and there it stands colossal".
http://the-toast.net/2016/03/22/every-meal-in-wuthering-heights-ranked-in-order-of-sadness/
"My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath...I am Heathcliff - he's always, always in my mind...as my own being".
"And what was it that had suggested the tremendous tumult...Merely, the branch of a fir-tree that touched my lattice as the blast wailed by, and rattled its dry cones against the panes!... This time I remembered I was lying in the oak closet and I heard distinctly the gusty wind, and the driving of the snow; I heard, also, the fir-bough repeat its teasing sound, and ascribed it to the right cause: but it annoyed me so much, that I resolved to silence it, if possible; and I thought, I rose and endeavoured to unhasp the casement...'I must stop it, nevertheless!' I muttered, knocking my knuckles through the glass, and stretching an arm out to seize the importunate branch: instead of which, my fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand! The intense horror of nightmare came over me; I tried to draw back my arm, but, the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed, Let me in-let me in!"
Charlotte Bronte wrote that: "Wuthering Heights was hewn in a wild workshop, with simple tools, out of homely materials. The statuary found a granite block on a solitary moor...with time and labour the crag took human shape, and there it stands colossal".
http://the-toast.net/2016/03/22/every-meal-in-wuthering-heights-ranked-in-order-of-sadness/
