There is nothing quite like this novel with its rage and ragings, its discontent and angry restlessness. Wuthering Heights is a virgin’s story.

And I pray one prayer–I repeat it till my tongue stiffens–Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living! You said I killed you–haunt me, then!…Be with me always–take any form–drive me...

I wish I could hold you,” she continued bitterly, “till we were both dead!

Wish and learn to smooth away the surly wrinkles, to raise your lids frankly, and change the fiends to confident, innocent angels, suspecting and doubting nothing, and always seeing friends where they are not sure...

He might as well plant an oak in a flowerpot, and expect it to thrive, as imagine he can restore her to vigour in the soil of his shallow cares!

I’d be glad of a retaliation that wouldn’t recoil on myself; but treachery and violence are spears pointed at both ends: they wound those who resort to them, worse than their enemies.

Their eyes are precisely similar, and they are those of Catherine Earnshaw.

What do you think is my favourite book? Just now, I mean; I change every three days. “Wuthering Heights.” Emily Bronte was quite young when she wrote it, and had never been outside of Haworth...

…I couldn’t let go of the thought that it had, in fact, been he, restless and moody Heathcliff. Day after day, he floated through all the Wal-Marts in America, searching for me in a million...

Am I a romantic? I’ve seen “Wuthering Heights” ten times. I’m a romantic.