As I neared the end of the final chapter of Wuthering Heights, I knew instantly that there would be nothing good I felt compelled to say about it. I raced to the finish line because it could not be over fast enough.
What was Emily Brontë thinking?
This torn copy has been part of my bookshelf for ten years, and due to the overwhelming negativity concerning the story, I avoided it for that long. I did read a few chapters six years ago, but never went beyond that. This time, however, I was truly excited to finally find out what the hype was about, and now I know. I know for sure that I will never read this book again.
Immediately it began in an interesting direction, and I was delighted already. But just as suddenly, it took a dark, wicked downward turn and spiraled from there. It became more and more ugly, and dark and dirty (not in a sexual way -- although the cousin thing is a little weird).
Every character is horrid, HORRID, horrid. Even the most normal character, Nelly, is ridiculous and unbelievable. How could she have loved any of those people and used that as an excuse to stay? Heathcliff is absolutely detestable; he is the vilest of men. His behavior is so outrageous that he is more like an evil force than a human being. Some of the younger characters appeared immature for their age, which bothered me, too. And Joseph was so incoherent that I had to skip over his arrogant rambles.
The ugliness of the characters spoiled my reading experience so much that I could not appreciate the gothic elements of the setting or the writing style. It is apparent that Emily Brontë can write well, but what she wrote about is perplexing. The story sucked the life out of me.