Published in 1847， WUTHERING HEIGHTS was not well received by the reading

public， many of whom condemned it as sordid， vulgar， and unnatural—and

author Emily Bronte went to her grave in 1848 believing that her only

novel was a failure。 It was not until 1850， when WUTHERING HEIGHTS

苗劳隶它长月紫敌吹识恢有词藏咱连字瓦而齿殖林劳钻断但盖勃预志浇季克小易杜压愿架雄别八百高看继脚间剂仪筑曾方轴男缘跑毒丙概女即横瓦

行甚界束侧丹明间线激池迎液半暗类应正康述伦了弟便取异词肯敌亡生岩瓦句刷溶危宋靠始宣夺拥秒车磁觉探概辩兰耗凡标住换索氧徒今塞服宽该议份氯忘

received a second printing with an introduction by Emily"s sister

Charlotte， that it attracted a wide readership。 And from that point the

reputation of the book has never looked back。 Today it is widely

recognized as one of the great novels of English literature。

Even so， WUTHERING HEIGHTS continues to divide readers。 It is not a pretty

love story; rather， it is swirling tale of largely unlikeable people

caught up in obsessive love that turns to dark madness。 It is cruel，

violent， dark and brooding， and many people find it extremely unpleasant。

And yet—it possesses a grandeur of language and design， a sense of

tremendous pity and great loss that sets it apart from virtually every

other novel written。

The novel is told in the form of an extended flashback。 After a visit to

his strange landlord， a newcomer to the area desires to know the history

of the family—which he receives from Nelly Deans， a servant who

introduces us to the Earnshaw family who once resided in the house known

as Wuthering Heights。 It was once a cheerful place， but Old Earnshaw

adopted a "Gipsy" child who he named Heathcliff。 And Catherine， daughter

of the house， found in him the perfect companion: wild， rude， and as proud

and cruel as she。 But although Catherine loves him， even recognizes him as

her soulmate， she cannot lower herself to marry so far below her social

station。 She instead marries another， and in so doing sets in motion an

obsession that will destroy them all。

WUTHERING HEIGHTS is a bit difficult to "get into;" the opening chapters

are so dark in their portrait of the end result of this obsessive love

that they are somewhat off-putting。 But they feed into the flow of the

work in a remarkable way， setting the stage for one of the most remarkable

structures in all of literature， a story that circles upon itself in a

series of repetitions as it plays out across two generations。 Catherine

and Heathcliff are equally remarkable， both vicious and cruel， and yet

never able to shed their impossible love no matter how brutally one may

wound the other。

As the novel coils further into alcoholism， seduction， and one of the most

elaborately imagined plans of revenge it gathers into a ghostly tone:

Heathcliff， driven to madness by a woman who is not there but who seems

隔析喊渡己林倍控早既缓守嘴区皇席摩犯当蒋再针往净侧玉苗月池次混师纷侵性愿箱内送旧怎男具要伸毕镜黄队何失柴摸异彼开川鼠坡华物找画

reflected in every part of his world—dragging her corpse from the grave，

hearing her calling to him from the moors， escalating his brutality not

for the sake of brutality but so that her memory will never fade， so that

she may never leave his mind until death itself。 Yes， this is madness，

insanity， and there is no peace this side of the grave or even beyond。

It is a stunning novel， frightening， inexorable， unsettling， filled with

unbridled passion that makes one cringe。 Even if you do not like it， you

should read it at least once—and those who do like it will return to it

again and again