Wuthering Heights. It’s a love-hate thing.

Thursday was Emily Brontë's birthday and she would have turned 197. Her pièce de résistance Wuthering Heights was probably the first (and only?) piece of classic literature that I connected to with such visceral, anguished, teenagery love, and now regard with no less admiration, but it's tempered with a more mature writerly and readerly respect. As a teenager I wrong-loved [...]