It should have been called Withering Heights, for any thing from which the mind and body would more instinctively shrink, than the mansion and its tenants, cannot be easily imagined.
—Unsigned notice, New Monthly Magazine1
The first time I read Wuthering Heights I was sixteen and full of a hearty dose of Jane Austen’s persuasive sensibilities. Miss Austen (standing in for the Lintons) had shown me polite society and good breeding, and I wanted the gracious and civilized ending she had promised. Emily Brontë cares nothing for polite society, good breeding, or gracious and civilized anything, and neither does anyone (well, anyone remotely interesting) in her book. Everything is a mess and everyone is awful and I hate it.