I really wanted to love Wuthering Heights. On the surface, it has everything you’d want in a Victorian Gothic novel: swirling melodrama, broody anti-heroes (and anti-heroines), family secrets, betrayal, death, etc. But I couldn’t get past how truly unlikeable everyone was, from the smug narrator to Cathy and Heathcliff. Everyone in this book needs therapy and medication.
The one saving grace is the writing, which is gorgeous. Bronte has a way of drawing you into her narrative, even when you don’t want to be there (although I did find her go at phonetic accents to be most distracting). I wondered what Emily Bronte’s other novels would have been like, had she not died at such a young age.
Still, even the beautiful writing could not persuade me to finish Wuthering Heights, because the story depressed me utterly.
Side note: I laughed when I found out that Wuthering Heights is Bella Swan’s favorite novel. Somehow, it fits.