Wuthering Heights

I have recently undergone the painful procedures of separation from the world of a brilliant book, and, even though I wish that the intense tale would continue for a period of eternity, it is lamentable that the raw and passionate story should end at all. Wuthering Heights is a book of many perspectives: of the worst human nature with the most intensely feeling ones, and the dispassionate, crude human form. This, Emily Bronte, has brought forth, fulfilling the author's very own purpose of her short tragic life, her death deeply mourned.

Starting with the dark struggles of Heathcliff and Catherine's love for him, the book takes a melancholic and sad hue to it, following then yet another unhealthy obsession and ending with a hopeful one. Along with the gray setting of the sky's constant plummet, the atmosphere created never fails to perturb the reader. A classic fit to be described under Gothic fiction.

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