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
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
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