Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte is one of those books that I was almost embarrassed not to have read yet. I’m glad to have finally read it now, and although I don’t have much to say about it, I do have a few thoughts.

I should have known going into it that it was never going to be a favorite. I am not a fan of books of the people-are-terrible-and-everything-is-bleak variety (a la Lord of the Flies), and this book is, unfortunately, pretty solidly in that vein (to my mind, anyway). It’s sometimes framed as a love story, but it is not (which I knew going into it). It’s a revenge story, really. And while I’m completely game for that sometimes (e.g. Shakespeare and ancient Greek tragedies), I think in this case, it feels somehow less true.

In Wuthering Heights, I see the main issues between Cathy and Heathcliff stemming from pride. However, it is a different pride than the hubris we talk about in English class. It’s more a stubborn immaturity. And frankly, I don’t find that as compelling to read.

I do see why this book looms so large in the English literature canon. I have a great deal of respect for Emily Bronte, and I can appreciate this book without liking it. But do I want to read about two stubbornly immature, unpleasant, abusive fools? No. Not particularly.

I am glad I read Wuthering Heights, but I don’t think it’s one that I will be revisiting.