I finished reading Wuthering Heights in the very early morning, finding it difficult to sleep through my dog Gallifrey’s incessant whining for an early (pre-dawn) breakfast.
I have the images of Bronte’s rural setting stuck in my thoughts, not Heathcliff’s madness or either of the two Cathys’s young spiritedness or young Earnshaw’s rehabilitation, but just the land. Ellen Dean the housekeeper tells the story. The striking story of excessive passion is ordinary too. Rural people that no one has ever heard of, people like oneself or one’s relations, experience strange and powerful emotions.
A weird but true picture of life is very different from the modern twaddle that one finds when perusing the internet.
Not that anyone wastes time reading this conversational bit of internet twaddle. I’m just saying, neighbor, that I was reading great and lively literature before dawn because the dog wouldn’t let me sleep.