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A review by mythicmarkings
Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë
Did not finish book. Stopped at 34%.
⭐️ ☆☆☆☆ (1/5 stars)
Reader, I am befuddled.
It is with trembling hand and a heavy, perhaps slightly rebellious, heart that I confess - I have lain this book aside unfinished.
Yes, unfinished. Do not gasp, dear reader. Do not clutch your pearls so tightly. I am well aware that to abandon a classic is tantamount to social ruin, that to speak ill of the Brontë name might get one thrown from the parlour, declared uncultured, or worse… a woman of no literary taste. But I must speak my truth, even if it invites the wrath of every bonnet-clad ghost on the Yorkshire moors.
Forsooth, I simply did not vibe with it.
The prose is a tangled thicket I could not hack my way through - dense, winding, and filled with such peculiar punctuation I feared I’d stumbled into an opium dream. The dialogue? A feverish carousel of narrators upon narrators, all speaking in riddles and swapping stories like they were playing hot potato with their trauma. I oft found myself squinting at the page, whispering, “Wait, who are you again?”
Perchance I am too simple-minded, or my sensibilities too modern. Mayhap my affliction of the nerves (read: ADHD) and tendency to misread (read: dyslexia) make such literature a steeper hill than most. But this was not merely a hill, it was the very cliff edge Heathcliff howled from, and I… could go no further.
I DNF’d around the halfway mark, somewhere between Cathy’s ghost fingernails and my last shred of comprehension. Perhaps one day I shall return, older, wiser, with a firmer grip on who is dead, who is alive, and why everyone is yelling in the rain.
Until then, I acknowledge its boldness, its fire, its impact on the hearts of women past. But as a reader of this modern age, I can only say: it is not my cup of tea, nor my haunted cup of laudanum.
Yours in literary regret,
A lady most confused
Reader, I am befuddled.
It is with trembling hand and a heavy, perhaps slightly rebellious, heart that I confess - I have lain this book aside unfinished.
Yes, unfinished. Do not gasp, dear reader. Do not clutch your pearls so tightly. I am well aware that to abandon a classic is tantamount to social ruin, that to speak ill of the Brontë name might get one thrown from the parlour, declared uncultured, or worse… a woman of no literary taste. But I must speak my truth, even if it invites the wrath of every bonnet-clad ghost on the Yorkshire moors.
Forsooth, I simply did not vibe with it.
The prose is a tangled thicket I could not hack my way through - dense, winding, and filled with such peculiar punctuation I feared I’d stumbled into an opium dream. The dialogue? A feverish carousel of narrators upon narrators, all speaking in riddles and swapping stories like they were playing hot potato with their trauma. I oft found myself squinting at the page, whispering, “Wait, who are you again?”
Perchance I am too simple-minded, or my sensibilities too modern. Mayhap my affliction of the nerves (read: ADHD) and tendency to misread (read: dyslexia) make such literature a steeper hill than most. But this was not merely a hill, it was the very cliff edge Heathcliff howled from, and I… could go no further.
I DNF’d around the halfway mark, somewhere between Cathy’s ghost fingernails and my last shred of comprehension. Perhaps one day I shall return, older, wiser, with a firmer grip on who is dead, who is alive, and why everyone is yelling in the rain.
Until then, I acknowledge its boldness, its fire, its impact on the hearts of women past. But as a reader of this modern age, I can only say: it is not my cup of tea, nor my haunted cup of laudanum.
Yours in literary regret,
A lady most confused