by Emily Bronte
You've either never read it or you've read it a long time ago. Well it's time to read it for the first time or to read it again. You know I love books and that I read one after the other. Yet I rarely bother to write about the books I read.
Why Wuthering Heights, you may ask.
Because it could have been any other novel: the tale of a young girl whose heart goes out to two different boys, the tale of two families who's land neighbored each other and how they intertwined or the tale of a stranger and the family that took him in.
Instead, Emily Bronte depicts the darkest and most lugubrious picture of all times. Not once in the novel do you feel good about a certain character, a certain deed or a certain feeling.
The expression of all emotions, even the most beautiful ones such as love and compassion, are swirled into the depths of all that is ugly.
The passion of some is so strong, it scream like a savage animal entrapped in the cruel arena of life. It chokes its actors and its spectators until all they have left is their appalling nakedness of their heart.
They stand naked in front of the reader who did not know till then that emotions can be so beautiful yet so ugly all at once.
Naked, raw, dark and ugly. Yet beautiful, because remember, it truly is the tale of the young girl, the two families and the stranger. A simple story.