Emily Brontë

Wuthering Heights is a novel by Emily Brontë published in 1847 under her pseudonym "Ellis Bell". Brontë's only finished novel, it was written between October 1845 and June 1846.[1] Wuthering Heights and Anne Brontë's Agnes Grey were accepted by publisher Thomas Newby before the success of their sister Charlotte's novel Jane Eyre. After Emily's death, Charlotte edited the manuscript of Wuthering Heights and arranged for the edited version to be published as a posthumous second edition in 1850.Although Wuthering Heights is now a classic of English literature, contemporaneous reviews were deeply polarised; it was controversial because of its unusually stark depiction of mental and physical cruelty, and it challenged strict Victorian ideals regarding religious hypocrisy, morality, social classes and gender inequality.The novel also explores the effects of envy, nostalgia, pessimism and resentment.

Emily Bronte Book Whithering Weathering Wurthing Whuthering Wuthering Hieghts Paperback

Wuthering Heights

Paige Leitner

I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here?

"If I were in heaven, Nelly, I should be extremely miserable."

"Because you are not fit to go there," I answered. "All sinners would be miserable in heaven."

Wuthering Heights is Emily Brontë's only novel. It was first published in 1847 under the pseudonym Ellis Bell, and a posthumous second edition was edited by her sister Charlotte. The name of the novel comes from the Yorkshire manor on the moors on which the story centres (as an adjective, wuthering is a Yorkshire word referring to turbulent weather). The narrative tells the tale of the all-encompassing and passionate, yet thwarted, love between Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshaw, and how this unresolved passion eventually destroys them and many around them.

Anna Cassmer Ling-Vannérus

I seated myself in a chair, and rocked, to and fro, passing harsh judgment on my many derelictions of duty; from which, it struck me then, all the misfortunes of all my employers sprang. It was not the case, in reality, I am aware; but it was, in my imagination, that dismal night; and I thought Heathcliff himselt less guilty than I.

May she wake in torment!' he cried, with frightful vehe- mence, stamping his foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion. Why, she's a liar to the end! Where is she? Not there - not in heaven - not perished - where? Oh! you said you cared nothing for my sufferings! And I pray one prayer -lrepeat it till my tongue stiffens - Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest, as long as I am living! You said I killed you - haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers. I believe -I know that ghosts bave wandered on earth. Be with me always - take any form fdrive me mad) only do not leave me in this. abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul! 

11 that irks me most is this shattered prison, after all. I'm tired tired of being enclosed here. I'm wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there; not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart; but really with it, and in it. 

Catherine, what have you done?" commenced the master 'Am I nothing to you, any more? Do you love that wretch Heath - Hush!' cried Mrs Linton. Hush, this moment! You mention that name and I end the matter, instantly, by a spring from the window! What you touch at present, you may have; but my soul will be on that hill-top before you lay hands on me again. I don't want you, Edgar; I'm past wanting you ... Return to your books.. .I'm glad you possess a consolation, for all you had in me is gone.

I26 E RING HEIGHTS heather on those hills... Open the window again wide, fasten it open! Quick, why don't you move? 'Because I won't give you your death of cold,' I answered. You won't give me a chance of ife, you mean, she said sullenly, However, I'm not helpless yet, Ill open it myself.'

Catherine’s yearning to be wild is confessed 

VOLUME I, CHAPTER XI her ling I25 into this room desperate - As soon as ever I had barred unning into the door, utter blackness overwhelmed m me, and I fell on the iek. r Loouldn't explain to Edgar how certain I felt of having or going raging mad, if he persisted in teasing me! I had no mand of tongue, or brain, and he did not guess my agony, ou per orhans: it barely left me sense to try to escape from him and ice - Before I recovered suffciently to see and hear., it an to be dawn; and Nelly, I'll tell you what I thought., and what has kept recurring and recurring till I feared for my reason I thought as I lay there with my head against that table leg. and my eyes dimly discerning the grey square of the window, that I was enclosed in the oak-panelled bed at home: and my heart ached with some great grief which, just waking, I could not recollect -I pondered, and worried myself to discover what it could be; and most strangely, the whole last seven years of my life grewa blank! I did not recall that they had been at all. I was a child; my father was just buried, and my misery arose from the separation that Hindley had ordered between me and Heath- cliff- I was laid alone, for the first time, and rousing from a dismal doze after a night of weeping -I lifted my hand to push the panels aside, it struck the table-top! I swept it along the carpet, and then, memory burst in- my late anguish was swal- lowed in a paroxysm of despair -I cannot say why I felt so wildly wretched - it must have been temporary derangem for there is scarcely cause - But, supposing at twelve years old, I had been wrenched from the Heights, and every early association, and my all in all, as Heathcliff was at that time, and been converted at a stroke into Mrs Linton, the lady of Thrushcross Grange, and the wife of a stranger; an exile, and outcast, thenceforth, from what had been my world - You may fancy a glimpse of the abyss where I grovelled! Shake your head, as you will, Nelly, you have helped to unsettle me! You should have spoken to Edgar, indeed you should, and compelled him to leave me quiet! Oh, I'm burning! I wish I were out of doors -I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free and laughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I so changed? why does my blood rush into a hell of tumult at a few words? I'm sure I should be myself were I once among the Or ce I

Catherine was fully aware of heathcliffs intentions and warns Isabella 

sorance of his character, child, and nothing lse, which makes ignorance of h rhat dream enter your head. Pray don't imagine that he conceals depths of benevolence and atfection beneath a stern exterior! He's not a rough diamond -a pearl-containing oyster ofa rustic; he's a fierce, pitiless, wolfish man. I never say to him let this or that enemy alone, because it would be ungenerous or cruel to harm them," I say let them alone, because I should hate them to be wronged:" and he'd crush you, like a sparrow's egg, Isabella, if he found you a troublesome charge. I know he couldn't love a Linton; and yet, he'd be quite capable of marry- ing your fortune, and expectations. Avarice is growing with him a besetting sin. There's my picture; and I'm his friend so much so, that had he thought seriously to catch you, I should, perhaps, have held my tongue, and let you fall into his trap. Miss I inton regarded her sister-in-law with indignation.

In other words, I must wis for Edgar Linton'. eves, and even forehead, he replied. I o-and that won't helo ish for Edgar Linton's me to them.' SA cOod heart will help you to a bonny face, my a bntinued, if you were a regular blackG and a bad one will 's great blue the bonniest into something worse than ugly. And n now that He shall we've done washing, and combing, and sulking-tell me wheth ou don't think yourself rather handsome? Pl tell you. I do You're fit for a prince in disguise. Who knows, but your father was Emperor of China, and your mother an Indian queen, each SCALS Again. What you n set hold ot longer!" They They of them able to buy up, With one week's income, Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange together? And you were kid- napped by wicked sailors, and brought to England. Were I in your place, I would frame high notions of my birth, and the peeping ache. I's He v but Hes thoughts of what I was should give me courage and dignity to appear even t first t the s that Support the oppressions of a little farmer!" So I chattered on; and Heathcliff gradually lost his frown,

Beginning on Hearhcliffs obsession with revenge. 

He went down; I set him a stool by the fire, and offered him a quantity of good things; but, he was sick and could eat litle: and my attempts to entertain him were thrown away. He leant his two elbows on his knees, and his chin on his hands, and remained wrapt in dumb meditation. On my inquiring the sub- ject of his thoughts, he answered gravely - Tm trying to settle how I shall pay Hindley back. I don't care how long I wait, if I can only do it, at last. I hope he will not die before I do! For shame, Heathcliff! said I. It is for God to punish wicked people; we should learn to forgive.' No, God won't have the satisfaction that I shall,' he returned. "T only wish I knew the best way! Let me alone, and rll plan it But, Mr Lockwood, I forget these tales cannot divert you. I'm annoyed how I should dream of chattering on at sucha rate; out: while I'm thinking of that, I don't feel pain.'

so he shall never know how I love him; and that, not because he's handsome, Nelly, but because he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same,

You shouldn't lie till ten. There's the very prime of the morning gone long before that time. A person who has not done one half his day's work by ten o'clock, runs a chance of leaving the other half undone.

Jacqui Spears

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same

Nelly is the only character I like so far and says it as it is😋

Rose Donovan

I went about my household duties, convinced that the Grange had but one sensible soul in its walls, and that lodged in my body.

Indi

My great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a might stranger. 

Because he’a more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

Heaven did not seem to be my home; and it broke my heart to come back to earth.

All sinners would be miserable in heaven.

If I were in heaven, Nelly, I should be extremely miserable.

this is such a third world romance type of book except they lived during the 18th century and was set in Yorkshire. 

i hated heathcliff BUT i did somehow get him.. BUT I DEFINITELY HATED HIM(lol).  I find him despicable and sinister but anyone would be as vengeful as him if placed in the same situation lol. 

march🐇

this is such a third world romance type of book except they lived during the 18th century and was set in Yorkshire. 

i hated heathcliff BUT i did somehow get him.. BUT I DEFINITELY HATED HIM(lol).  I find him despicable and sinister but anyone would be as vengeful as him if placed in the same situation lol. 

When I bought my copy of this a couple years ago in a used bookstore, I picked it up because it was cheap and I knew it as a classic. I admit, I was reluctant to start due to a specific kind of sexist thought process of: "I imagine this book that I only know of as a romance, written by a surely-aristocratic woman in the 1800s, has to be a stuffy, old-timey melodramatic bore." I expected lots of run-on poetic "I love you" chants in the rain. I wasn't and am still not lured in by a "romance" book at all. I figured with the movie coming out it would be a somewhat topical reading choice, so I bit the bullet and went for it.

I am pleased to say this book was not at all what I expected. The "romance" is a horribly warped one between two morons, both with a complete neglect for anyone but themselves. They're seemingly only drawn to each other because their opposite reminds them of themselves -- mostly their varied levels of psychoticism.

This book is primarily about Heathcliff ruining everybody around him, and some (most) of these people really do deserve his wrathful plague. Everybody sucks (Linton is a living joke) and you will cherish their absurd miseries. My favorite thing about this book, no question, was Brontë's dark, wicked humor. There are so many hilarious moments throughout, but my favorite laugh-out-loud bit was Hindley's final battle with Heathcliff. Hindley just locking Heathcliff out of the house repeatedly, sometimes while it snows, makes me chuckle now thinking about it. They're both such pricks.

Like "Moby Dick", "Wuthering Heights" is something of a time capsule, yet also like MD it remains exceptionally easy and compelling to read. Brontë's prose is excellent, I suppose it can be called "stained glass" but I think her word choices were very interesting, varied, and always painted a clear picture. Seeing how much happens throughout the book, it's arguably extremely dense, but it never felt curt. She took her time yet never rambled.

I did hate every time Joseph opened his mouth. Was was happening there, he was insufferably Scottish? Brontë had a laugh to herself writing out everything he said phonetically, I'm sure.

I highly recommend "Wuthering Heights". I'm calling it early, but this is sure to be my favorite romance of all time, probably because it's not a romance at all and thank god for that.

Evan

This was an extremely good book.

When I bought my copy of this a couple years ago in a used bookstore, I picked it up because it was cheap and I knew it as a classic. I admit, I was reluctant to start due to a specific kind of sexist thought process of: "I imagine this book that I only know of as a romance, written by a surely-aristocratic woman in the 1800s, has to be a stuffy, old-timey melodramatic bore." I expected lots of run-on poetic "I love you" chants in the rain. I wasn't and am still not lured in by a "romance" book at all. I figured with the movie coming out it would be a somewhat topical reading choice, so I bit the bullet and went for it.

I am pleased to say this book was not at all what I expected. The "romance" is a horribly warped one between two morons, both with a complete neglect for anyone but themselves. They're seemingly only drawn to each other because their opposite reminds them of themselves -- mostly their varied levels of psychoticism.
This book is primarily about Heathcliff ruining everybody around him, and some (most) of these people really do deserve his wrathful plague. Everybody sucks (Linton is a living joke) and you will cherish their absurd miseries. My favorite thing about this book, no question, was Brontë's dark, wicked humor. There are so many hilarious moments throughout, but my favorite laugh-out-loud bit was Hindley's final battle with Heathcliff. Hindley just locking Heathcliff out of the house repeatedly, sometimes while it snows, makes me chuckle now thinking about it. They're both such pricks.

Like "Moby Dick", "Wuthering Heights" is something of a time capsule, yet also like MD it remains exceptionally easy and compelling to read. Brontë's prose is excellent, I suppose it can be called "stained glass" but I think her word choices were very interesting, varied, and always painted a clear picture. Seeing how much happens throughout the book, it's arguably extremely dense, but it never felt curt. She took her time yet never rambled.
I did hate every time Joseph opened his mouth. Was was happening there, he was insufferably Scottish? Brontë had a laugh to herself writing out everything he said phonetically, I'm sure.

I highly recommend "Wuthering Heights". I'm calling it early, but this is sure to be my favorite romance of all time, probably because it's not a romance at all and thank god for that.

Beautiful and devastating. It encapsulates so well the range of human emotion while distinctly feeling like a fictional story. It's exaggerative and dramatic, yet raw and real. I think Jane Eyre still remains my favorite Brontë but both novels are trying to convey different messages and they do, in their own right. 

"May you not rest, as long as I am living. You said I killed you - haunt me, then" Lockwood, the new tenant of Thrushcross Grange on the bleak Yorkshire moors, 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.

Joana

I was really looking forward to reading this. So disappointed. 

Georgia Adams

Eva Cace

Insane- hilarious - hard to keep up. This is my second time reading and I took the characters way less seriously this time. They’re horrid! The first time I was in love with Heathcliff and now I find he and Cathy and everyone involved expect Nelly just soOoO self absorbed. It’s a fantastic book. Couldn’t tear through anything from 1847 faster. Love the drama, love the intensity, love the insanity, love the ghosts. Bah so good. So grim. So perfect for January.  

Lily Dendy

Gabe Cortez

Ask me about this book and I WILL mention tuberculosis and I WILL defend Heathcliff’s actions 

Margo Koss

Heathcliff’s affliction from separation from Catherine due to his otherness (different social class & non-white in appearance) leads to vengeance, death, and ultimately shapes the dynamics of two families. 

I had read about quite many morally ambiguous characters, even if they’re the main characters, but the difference in Emily Brontë’s writing is that almost all characters are either morally ambiguous to extremely cruel. She wrote that the abused can be the abuser. That people of “higher” social class may love a person from a “lower” social class than them but still want to maintain their status quo. That unrequited love that is riddled with different social classes may not have a redemption arc but instead will produce a cruelty and horror that will haunt generations after them

Fasiha🌺🐧

Heathcliff’s affliction from separation from Catherine due to his otherness (different social class & non-white in appearance) leads to vengeance, death, and ultimately shapes the dynamics of two families. 

I had read about quite many morally ambiguous characters, even if they’re the main characters, but the difference in Emily Brontë’s writing is that almost all characters are either morally ambiguous to extremely cruel. She wrote that the abused can be the abuser. That people of “higher” social class may love a person from a “lower” social class than them but still want to maintain their status quo. That unrequited love that is riddled with different social classes may not have a redemption arc but instead will produce a cruelty and horror that will haunt generations after them

Rip Cathy and Heathcliff you would've loved Melodrama!!!!!

Regan Martin

while it stands true that a book should not be evaluated on the basis of how likeable the characters are, i couldn’t help but feel that my primary impediment to thoroughly enjoying this came from the insufferableness of nearly the entire cast of characters. i knew this was no jane austen, but i honestly never expected heathcliff to be such an unredeemable monster from all the times i've heard people hail him as their ideal fictional man!

still, it's definitely a book i'll think about for a while, or, to put it even better, will haunt me for a while. i believe a rewatch of the 1939 movie is now in order. 

while it stands true that a book should not be evaluated on the basis of how likeable the characters are, i couldn’t help but feel that my primary impediment to thoroughly enjoying this came from the insufferableness of nearly the entire cast of characters. i knew this was no jane austen, but i honestly never expected heathcliff to be such an unredeemable monster from all the times i've heard people hail him as their ideal fictional man!

still, it's definitely a book i'll think about for a while, or, to put it even better, will haunt me for a while. i believe a rewatch of the 1939 movie is now in order. 

Liking the crazed, unhinged, feral behavior of her characters to that of a dog was most compelling, and an allegory I wish she developed further instead of leaving to moments of particular intensity, e.g. Lockwood attempting to run off and being pounced by Heathcliff’s dogs, Heathcliff in his cruel fits of passion and fury.

Overall, none of the characters were likeable, not even the narrators Nelly and Lockwood, who revealed their biases in their own ways.

And I found the fuel of my interest in this book was craving some sort of resolution, redemption, freedom for any one of these characters, each who suffer miserable endings in their own ways.

But I find that this must just be the quintessential British tone: melodramatic and continuous, restrained suffering. We see it in the kitchen sink dramas of Eastenders and period dramas like Downton Abbey. And now I am fortunate to witness its roots in the 1800 classics of the Romantic, gothic era of literature, and get a glimpse into the life of Northern England at that time.

Perhaps I felt most connected to Heathcliff in his most passionate fits. The feeling is so familiar: the feeling of being clouded with a rage, pain, fury so intense that you yourself, and neither those of onlookers, can see the purity of the love and loss that drives it all at the core. A feeling that I experienced so vividly as a child, uncontrollable fits likened to an exorcism, one that leaves you uncontrollably shaking, banging, and smashing doors. I have since tempered as an adult, but find myself revisiting the feeling, albeit in much more manageable doses, every now and then: in heartbreak, betrayal, and loss of adult life.

I’m particularly moved by his monologue upon learning of Catherine’s death:

“May she wake in torment!” he cried, with frightful vehemence, stamping his foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion. “Why, she’s a liar to the end! Where is she? Not 

—not in heaven—not perished—where? Oh! you said you cared nothing for my sufferings! And I pray one prayer—I repeat it till my tongue stiffens—Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest, as long as I am living! You said I killed you—haunt me then! The murdered haunt their murderers. I believe—I know that ghosts 

 wandered on earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only 

 not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I 

Had Heathcliff not been so rotten, a disposition for vengeance and abuse at his core, I would have felt much more tethered to him as a character. Instead, I find myself in him in his passionate, rageful fits, and the face of my abusers as he performs unspeakable acts on his victims behind closed doors. An unsettling reflection of myself as both the perpetrators and the victim, but perhaps that is just what he is, or rather, what we are.

Marissa Liu

Liking the crazed, unhinged, feral behavior of her characters to that of a dog was most compelling, and an allegory I wish she developed further instead of leaving to moments of particular intensity, e.g. Lockwood attempting to run off and being pounced by Heathcliff’s dogs, Heathcliff in his cruel fits of passion and fury.

Overall, none of the characters were likeable, not even the narrators Nelly and Lockwood, who revealed their biases in their own ways.

And I found the fuel of my interest in this book was craving some sort of resolution, redemption, freedom for any one of these characters, each who suffer miserable endings in their own ways.

But I find that this must just be the quintessential British tone: melodramatic and continuous, restrained suffering. We see it in the kitchen sink dramas of Eastenders and period dramas like Downton Abbey. And now I am fortunate to witness its roots in the 1800 classics of the Romantic, gothic era of literature, and get a glimpse into the life of Northern England at that time.

Perhaps I felt most connected to Heathcliff in his most passionate fits. The feeling is so familiar: the feeling of being clouded with a rage, pain, fury so intense that you yourself, and neither those of onlookers, can see the purity of the love and loss that drives it all at the core. A feeling that I experienced so vividly as a child, uncontrollable fits likened to an exorcism, one that leaves you uncontrollably shaking, banging, and smashing doors. I have since tempered as an adult, but find myself revisiting the feeling, albeit in much more manageable doses, every now and then: in heartbreak, betrayal, and loss of adult life.

I’m particularly moved by his monologue upon learning of Catherine’s death:

“May she wake in torment!” he cried, with frightful vehemence, stamping his foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion. “Why, she’s a liar to the end! Where is she? Not there—not in heaven—not perished—where? Oh! you said you cared nothing for my sufferings! And I pray one prayer—I repeat it till my tongue stiffens—Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest, as long as I am living! You said I killed you—haunt me then! The murdered haunt their murderers. I believe—I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!”

Had Heathcliff not been so rotten, a disposition for vengeance and abuse at his core, I would have felt much more tethered to him as a character. Instead, I find myself in him in his passionate, rageful fits, and the face of my abusers as he performs unspeakable acts on his victims behind closed doors. An unsettling reflection of myself as both the perpetrators and the victim, but perhaps that is just what he is, or rather, what we are.

Eine leidenschaftliche Liebe, die im Leben keine Erfüllung und im Tod keine Ruhe findet

Der Findling Heathcliff wächst bei Familie Earnshaw auf dem Gutshof Wuthering Heights in Yorkshire auf. Mit deren stürmischer und leidenschaftlicher Tochter Catherine verbindet ihn eine tiefe Freundschaft. Als der Stiefbruder nach dem Tod des Vaters dem Alkohol und der Spielsucht verfällt und beide terrorisiert, entschließt sich Catherine entgegen ihrer Gefühle, den reichen und angesehenen Nachbarn Edgar Linton zu ehelichen. Der schwer gekränkte Heathcliff schwört, sich daraufhin an beiden Familien zu rächen...

Sturmhöhe

Dieser Klassiker wird oft als einfache  Liebgeschichte abgetan, doch er ist weit mehr als das.

Es ist eine Familiengeschichte, durchdrungen von Hass und Missgunst, von Liebe und Rache, von Bedauern und Tod. Die Geschichte ist intensiv erzählt, und ihre Charaktere sind lebendig und leidenschaftlich. Sie handelt von einer Familie – Bruder, Schwester und Eltern –, die auf einem Anwesen namens Wuthering Heights lebt. Eines Tages kehrt der Vater von einer Reise zurück und bringt einen Findeljungen mit: Heathcliff. Die Geschwister nehmen ihn alles andere als freudig auf.

Die Erzählung zeigt, welche Auswirkungen Verachtung und schlechte Behandlung auf einen Menschen haben können, welche zerstörerische Kraft das starke Verlangen nach Rache entfalten kann und wie intensiv solche Gefühle in einem Menschen hausen können. Die Liebe zwischen Catherine und Heathcliff ist außergewöhnlich, tief, leidenschaftlich und schmerzlich traurig.

Ich habe es geliebt, in das düstere Setting der Moorlandschaft einzutauchen. Die perfekte Lektüre für Herbst Abende.

Zainab 

Dieser Klassiker wird oft als einfache  Liebgeschichte abgetan, doch er ist weit mehr als das.

Es ist eine Familiengeschichte, durchdrungen von Hass und Missgunst, von Liebe und Rache, von Bedauern und Tod. Die Geschichte ist intensiv erzählt, und ihre Charaktere sind lebendig und leidenschaftlich. Sie handelt von einer Familie – Bruder, Schwester und Eltern –, die auf einem Anwesen namens Wuthering Heights lebt. Eines Tages kehrt der Vater von einer Reise zurück und bringt einen Findeljungen mit: Heathcliff. Die Geschwister nehmen ihn alles andere als freudig auf.

Die Erzählung zeigt, welche Auswirkungen Verachtung und schlechte Behandlung auf einen Menschen haben können, welche zerstörerische Kraft das starke Verlangen nach Rache entfalten kann und wie intensiv solche Gefühle in einem Menschen hausen können. Die Liebe zwischen Catherine und Heathcliff ist außergewöhnlich, tief, leidenschaftlich und schmerzlich traurig.

Ich habe es geliebt, in das düstere Setting der Moorlandschaft einzutauchen. Die perfekte Lektüre für Herbst Abende.

the historical “Romantic” has disseminated into the populist “romantic”, and so consumption of Romantic literature has correspondingly fixated on a siloed “passion”, a superficial survey of romance as through the haze of a vague Europeanish post-Disney pastiche. i have come to despise average app reviewers, who demonstrate the capability of engaging with a work of fiction solely in terms of the purely solipsistic (“omg this made me sob so hard”) or moralising (“ok sure they were racist to heathcliff but he was totally an abuser and so this isn’t romantic”). Brontë is contending with a multigenerational epic here, with third party narrators that are flesh and blood agents of the story rather than disembodied scribes. i want to treat this work as a lens to discuss incest among proud, ancient families living in squalor, or the offhanded single sentences allotted to major character deaths that treat recollecting the past with the inflection of playing an accordion. i want to say that this is much more than a thing to get off to or wag your finger at. i want to say that its greatest villain isn’t the abused orphan turned vicious landlord, rather the institution of marriage and civil society. but in doing so, i would need to define my position is as a “critic” standing at the brink of this immensely complex tale — would one “review” the Bible or the Ramayana? am i primarily a sociological critic, or a psychoanalytic critic, or a…?

it feels redundant to opine about something that has taken on such mythic proportions. my only “criticisms”, were i to make myself conjure some, were that it felt abridged: its third-person narration, though spirited and delightfully subjective, keeps us removed from details and wraps up years in an instance at the whim of the storyteller (heathcliff’s janky schemes and subsequent demise in particular are jarringly expedited to maintain pacing). this should have been a proper tome! another “criticism”: i think though there is surgical emotional precision to all of the characters, that same lucidity to the observations is unconvincingly uniform. And everyone’s tendency to confide in nelly as they all invariably do, and hers to listen to them, does begin to stretch credulity a bit. That’s the most nit i can pick.

if i were being a solipsist too, i would say that the dread pervading the Heights was almost too reminiscent of my own childhood in a home of suspicion, hostility and bad faith spanning three generations i might talk more about that (“no one wanted anything to do with our home”). i would say cathy’s frenzied monologues about not being able to conceive of an existence without her twin are the most fun i have had with this book, and the emotional peak of the work’s aesthetic aims; the windowsill, the shawl, the glassy faraway look, the logorrhoea about wanting to be truly with and of the world, all arresting unforgettable images solidified within me and i have perhaps been incepted with the evil seed of wanting to stay in the Penistone Crags Airbnb and role playing a death-bound Mrs Linton. i also think the landscape of the sweeping moors is tangibly felt, and leaves one aching for a sight of them with a parasocially embedded nostalgia, perhaps the second biggest factor in driving WH to its cultural status after the “passions”.

but if i had to “review” with some pretense of high-minded objectivity, as i am, i would say something like wuthering heights is a rich, condensed text on the tolls of procuring and wielding power — women are property under couverture, racialised bodies are devilish threats to order, the matrimonial family structure is enforced through godly fear and alienates everyone more than their own pride does holding bodies imprisoned. the union of cathy and heathcliff can only be consummated outside time (the mortal coil), and outside space (on the moors they are relegated to be “half-wild and free” like in their childhood), a sublime contender to these relatively pettier considerations of paper and property (which is why attempting to adapt with a white heathcliff and a white cathy exploring psychosexual terrain is blasphemously misguided and frictionless in its conflict, @ one Ms Fennell). even in life, neither can conjure a self-concept without the other (“I 

 heathcliff”, “how can one live with their soul in the ground?”) and this self-identification in the other causes irreconcilable contradictions in their lifetimes. the conflict is driven by virtues all its characters, Earnshaws, Lintons, Heathcliffs alike, cannot yield: pride, customs, grief, because alienation from those virtues would mean alienation of identity, no matter the cost of ruin holding on to these brings. this compulsion is not a mere parable, it is why we cannot help but make “mistakes” that we recognise as mistakes even in real time, and potentially abandon or ruin relationships: the factors that would compel us to change, to live in someone else’s definition of peace, to match another’s comfort with conflict, would transform us in ways that would destroy who we have decided we are. if you really insist upon having a moral takeaway from WH, let it be that.

pranya


the historical “Romantic” has disseminated into the populist “romantic”, and so consumption of Romantic literature has correspondingly fixated on a siloed “passion”, a superficial survey of romance as through the haze of a vague Europeanish post-Disney pastiche. i have come to despise average app reviewers, who demonstrate the capability of engaging with a work of fiction solely in terms of the purely solipsistic (“omg this made me sob so hard”) or moralising (“ok sure they were racist to heathcliff but he was totally an abuser and so this isn’t romantic”). Brontë is contending with a multigenerational epic here, with third party narrators that are flesh and blood agents of the story rather than disembodied scribes. i want to treat this work as a lens to discuss incest among proud, ancient families living in squalor, or the offhanded single sentences allotted to major character deaths that treat recollecting the past with the inflection of playing an accordion. i want to say that this is much more than a thing to get off to or wag your finger at. i want to say that its greatest villain isn’t the abused orphan turned vicious landlord, rather the institution of marriage and civil society. but in doing so, i would need to define my position is as a “critic” standing at the brink of this immensely complex tale — would one “review” the Bible or the Ramayana? am i primarily a sociological critic, or a psychoanalytic critic, or a…?

it feels redundant to opine about something that has taken on such mythic proportions. my only “criticisms”, were i to make myself conjure some, were that it felt abridged: its third-person narration, though spirited and delightfully subjective, keeps us removed from details and wraps up years in an instance at the whim of the storyteller (heathcliff’s janky schemes and subsequent demise in particular are jarringly expedited to maintain pacing). this should have been a proper tome! another “criticism”: i think though there is surgical emotional precision to all of the characters, that same lucidity to the observations is unconvincingly uniform. And everyone’s tendency to confide in nelly as they all invariably do, and hers to listen to them, does begin to stretch credulity a bit. That’s the most nit i can pick.

if i were being a solipsist too, i would say that the dread pervading the Heights was almost too reminiscent of my own childhood in a home of suspicion, hostility and bad faith spanning three generations i might talk more about that (“no one wanted anything to do with our home”). i would say cathy’s frenzied monologues about not being able to conceive of an existence without her twin are the most fun i have had with this book, and the emotional peak of the work’s aesthetic aims; the windowsill, the shawl, the glassy faraway look, the logorrhoea about wanting to be truly with and of the world, all arresting unforgettable images solidified within me and i have perhaps been incepted with the evil seed of wanting to stay in the Penistone Crags Airbnb and role playing a death-bound Mrs Linton. i also think the landscape of the sweeping moors is tangibly felt, and leaves one aching for a sight of them with a parasocially embedded nostalgia, perhaps the second biggest factor in driving WH to its cultural status after the “passions”.

but if i had to “review” with some pretense of high-minded objectivity, as i am, i would say something like wuthering heights is a rich, condensed text on the tolls of procuring and wielding power — women are property under couverture, racialised bodies are devilish threats to order, the matrimonial family structure is enforced through godly fear and alienates everyone more than their own pride does holding bodies imprisoned. the union of cathy and heathcliff can only be consummated outside time (the mortal coil), and outside space (on the moors they are relegated to be “half-wild and free” like in their childhood), a sublime contender to these relatively pettier considerations of paper and property (which is why attempting to adapt with a white heathcliff and a white cathy exploring psychosexual terrain is blasphemously misguided and frictionless in its conflict, @ one Ms Fennell). even in life, neither can conjure a self-concept without the other (“I am heathcliff”, “how can one live with their soul in the ground?”) and this self-identification in the other causes irreconcilable contradictions in their lifetimes. the conflict is driven by virtues all its characters, Earnshaws, Lintons, Heathcliffs alike, cannot yield: pride, customs, grief, because alienation from those virtues would mean alienation of identity, no matter the cost of ruin holding on to these brings. this compulsion is not a mere parable, it is why we cannot help but make “mistakes” that we recognise as mistakes even in real time, and potentially abandon or ruin relationships: the factors that would compel us to change, to live in someone else’s definition of peace, to match another’s comfort with conflict, would transform us in ways that would destroy who we have decided we are. if you really insist upon having a moral takeaway from WH, let it be that.

This is what I mean when I say I love pop culture. A classic deserving to be called so. Ofc a woman wrote it. Excelent naration by Patricia Routledge.

Why did no one make me read this in highschool? I would have made it my fav, it is SO mimicore. But I was prejudiced because of Bella.

I had nightmares and heartaches and the violence hit close to home but wow. So very passionate it makes me feel validated. It went straight through my heart. Took me long cause I sobbed so much until PEM but it was well worth this permanent degradation.

martian1138

This is what I mean when I say I love pop culture. A classic deserving to be called so. Ofc a woman wrote it. Excelent naration by Patricia Routledge.

Why did no one make me read this in highschool? I would have made it my fav, it is SO mimicore. But I was prejudiced because of Bella.

I had nightmares and heartaches and the violence hit close to home but wow. So very passionate it makes me feel validated. It went straight through my heart. Took me long cause I sobbed so much until PEM but it was well worth this permanent degradation.

Fire found!

Oof - what brats! A very human story about altogether unlikeable characters intertwined in incredibly toxic relationships. I read a review of this book that said “monsters love, too” and I think that sums it up entirely. 

Der alte Mr. Earnshaw hat aus den Elensquartieren von Liverpool einen kleinen Jungen auf seinen sturmumtosten Hof in Yorkshire mitgebracht. Seine Tochter Catherine empfindet für den schroffen und aufbrausenden Heathcilff, wie man ihn nennt, von Anfang an grosse Sympathie und Zuneigung, denn auch sie ist von schwierigem, leidenschaftlichem Temperament. Ihr Bruder Hindley begegnet dem Jungen mit eifersüchtigem Hass. Als Catherine im heiratsfähigen Alter jedoch einen anderen ihm vorzieht, verfolgt Heathcliff sie und alle, die ihr lieb und teuer sind, mit erbitterter und alles zerstörender Rache. Schon als Kinder waren sie unzertrennlich: Catherine von der Sturmhöhe und ihr Stiefbruder Heathcliff. Doch als Catherine einen anderen heiratet, verfolgt Heathcliff sie und ihre Familie mit seinem Hass bis in den Tod. Ein Roman um leidenschaftliche Liebe und alles zerstörende Rache.

Roman

Die Liebesgeschichte zwischen Catherine und Heathcliff ist tragisch wie sie schön ist. Gefallen hat mir vor allem die geheimnisvolle Stimmung, die die Geschichte begleitet und trägt. Die Erzählweise fand ich ich leider immer wieder ermüdend, man merkt doch, dass "Sturmhöhe" aus einem anderen Jahrhundert stammt.

Marlene 

A beautifully written storm of love, revenge, and human nature.

Tanishq Khandelwal

Kind of heart breaking. Actually, it was super sad but I couldn’t tell if I was sad for the characters or feeling so much pity for heathcliff. 

soph 

it’s the drama mick I just love it xxxx

half a star taken off because I want to execute joseph every time he speaks xx

Laura Layden

it’s the drama mick I just love it xxxx

it’s giving big brother <3 

half a star taken off because I want to execute joseph every time he speaks xx

Karla

One of those books that's really cool in theory but absolutly drags on to read

Wuthering Heights Emily Bronte Book Whithering Weathering Wurthing Whuthering Wuthering Hieghts Paperback

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