Scathing Book Reviews of Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte falls rather outside my reading circle, but its certainly one of those books that you’d like to be able pretend you’ve read, particularly when talking with women of a certain age, many of whom seem to use it as a touchstone of some kind.

Perhaps I will – but these Scathing Book Reviews of Wuthering Heights would like it to take a leap:

Heathcliff is a loser in every sense of the word. If Heathcliff were alive today he’d be in jail or hospitalized as “criminally insane”.

…and:

Wuthering Heights is inundated with Emily Bronte’s so-called unique style. It’s style is unique alright, if by unique you mean a brand new alternative form of euthanasia.

…and:

I hadn’t realized just how much I loathed [the characters] until halfway through the book, when a major character died, and all I could think was, “THANK GOD! THANK GOD!”

…and:

It sucked: The Real name of this book should be Wuthering Bites. This book is a piece of poo and there is no exciting parts. The whole book pretty much bit and I will never read it again.

…and:

The only reason I finished it was to settle an oddly masochistic wager with a family member… If there is such a thing as hell, for me, it would be an empty room with nothing but a copy of Wuthering Heights in it.

…and:

Some great works of literature are best lost to posterity and this one may head the list. Yet, we must read it if we are in an English Literature survey course.

…and there’s this, with advice that would have solved all of poor Emily Bronte’s problems… (!):

Oh poor poo-poo Heathcliff the Brooding and Catherine the ill fated strumpet. Yawn. Emily Bronte lived one of those lives like that of the other Emily, you know, Dickenson, who is another pile of rubbish altogether. Lonely days and cold nights with her father, , and no hot little encounters with a horny gardener from Spain. All Emily Bronte needed was a good tango, but I fear that she was too chaste.

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