Holy shit, Wuthering Heights is my favourite classic. There, I said it. This was a reread for me, the first time was when I was 17 and read in translation and I still remembered, if not the plot, a lot about the characters and atmosphere and setting. This time around I have underlined so many lines and dog-eared so many pages to find them again. <i>“He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same." “If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger." “I have not broken your heart - you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine.”</i> First of all, this is not a romance. It is about love, but no one in their right mind could romanticise that kind of love. It's a story about Heathcliff, an unloved, neglected and abused foster child that turns into an incredibly hateful, abusive, cruel and violent man, out for revenge on everyone who has ever wronged him, even after they are dead. All of the characters are tragic and flawed at the very least, but more so they deceive, gaslight, blackmail, manipulate and threaten each other. They know nothing between love and hate, and sometimes only hate. Their proclaimed love is an obsessive, toxic, self destructive one. To add to the gruesome plot, we only ever get the story second-, third-, sometimes even fourth-hand, through the eyes of not one, but two unreliable narrators, making the narrative structure quite unique. I'm in deep awe of 20-something Emily Brontë, daughter of a clergyman, to have written this gothic tale of generational trauma and abuse, set against a stormy, wild countryside, making contemporaries claim, this could have never been written by gentleman, let alone a woman (gasp).