I know I know. This post is supposed to be about books that make you cry, like The Fault in our Stars. But when have I ever done a post correctly?
Or, even read a book “correctly”…
It always infuriates me when people use that quote, “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” Generally, it’s used in a mushy, lovestruck way. You see it on pretty, flowery Pinterest posters all the time.
Taken out of context, sure it sounds lovely.
But, contrary to everyone’s believe, Wuthering Heights is NOT a lovely book. It’s NOT a romance novel from long ago. Quite the opposite really.
Catherine and Heathcliff were terrible people. They lived to tear everyone in their world apart. The feels I feel for this book? Anger, obviously. Hatred, yes. Despair, certainly.
And yet, I want to read it again. Because that’s the point of literature. To make you feel something so strongly, that even if it’s a horrible feeling…you must feel it again, just to understand it. You must have it make sense.
And Wuthering Heights does not make sense to me yet.
As I Lay Reading 