Wuthering Heights

Forget the bonnet. This is a knife. A filthy boy is dragged onto the moors and into a house that hates him. The daughter of the house does not. Catherine and Heathcliff grow up in the same wind, the same dirt, the same ruinous want. What they have is not a love story. It is a hunger that will not share, will not soften, will not stop at the living. One night in that house is enough to ruin a man’s sleep. The book does the same. If you came for polite passion, you came to the wrong moor.