The Book I Couldn't Finish
I like reading Classics, now-a-days. So this June I tried reading ‘Wuthering Heights’ by Emily Bronte. Almost halfway through the book, I realized, this is a weird one. I am not able to pinpoint the kind of emotions and feelings this book seems to have burdened me with. Yes, ‘burdened’ is the word. And mind you, this is the review for the half of the book that I managed to read. I left the rest unread; not every book you start is meant to be completed and this is one of those. First, let us cover the positive aspects of the novel. It is a very passionately written book. Every dialogue oozes with passion; every scene or situation, however lovely or wretched, throbs with unparalleled passion. There’s passion in hate; passion in holding onto grudges; passion in blame, in regret, in murderous revenge, in spiteful words, in bewildered sentiments, in love that peeps in and out amidst all these. I didn’t like the female protagonist, Catherine. Neither did I like Heathcliff, th...