Years ago, a group of English colleagues and I took a post-graduate class in literature with another who was a Ph.D. and adjunct for a local university. Several of us were just interested in some professional development while a couple others were using the class as part of their MA in English. The class was primarily Victorian in nature, and we read some incredible works of literature, some familiar - namely Jane Eyre - and others new and obscure - like the sublime melodrama East Lynne from Ellen Wood.
And then we read Wuthering Heights. Surprisingly, none of the English majors in the room had read or taught the book. And for that we were thankful. Truly, the room was in consensus that it was one of the worst novels we can recall reading in its entirety. Other than the professor, who was quite amused by our contempt for the story, no one enjoyed it, and the reason was clear: it is a truly miserable story in a miserable setting about miserable people and a miserable message.
Consensus: WH is not only not a great love story, it's not a love story at all. And that's an important consideration with the recent release of a film version and the New York Times asking: Is Emily Brontë’s ‘Wuthering Heights’ Actually the Greatest Love Story of All Time?
No. No, it is absolutely not.
The Washington Post has a piece as well, taking a markedly different approach by stating "Wuthering Heights" is the "Birth of the Toxic Boyfriend.
And, yes. Yes, it is.
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