If nothing else, it can't help but earn your respect. "Wuthering Heights" is many things, but it is emphatically not what you expect it to be; indeed, I've read few classics that have evaded predictability so completely.
This is a dark, nasty novel that's stalked by violence and hatred, almost to the point of being a sardonic parody of itself. At times, only the steady pace of the narrative provides a familiar reference point, something to cling onto as hard, selfish characters pointedly turn their backs on your interest. That's also its problem, of course: it spends so much energy on keeping you at arm's length that there's no possibility of emotional engagement.
Instead, you have to admire from afar, and it's only at the novel's conclusion that you fully understand what you've been admiring. Until then, the simple, effective narrative has promised a complete story; in reality, though, that's just the means to an end and Bronte stops as soon as she's accomplished her goal.
So, rather, this is a simple and rather bold portrait of one man, Heathcliff. It's an intimidating portrait too, glaring at you from the wall and following you around the room until you leave. Quite impressive, if not at all easy to love.
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