THERE’S something about old books. Something in the way it feels to hold them.
Wuthering Heights is by no means my favourite classic. To be perfectly frank, I prefer Kate Bush’s Wuthering Heights – mostly because I heard once that some people believed she was singing “It’s me, I’m a tree, I’m a wombat” instead of “It’s me, I’m Cathy, I’ve come home now”.
Regardless of that interesting side note , I would still argue that there are plenty of other much more tragic and romantic classics that are worth reading beyond Wuthering Heights.
Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, Little Women, Anne of Green Gables – just to rhyme off a few.
I’ve tried to read Wuthering Heights a few times but, meh, I just don’t find myself enjoying it that much.
While I may not love the story, I do love this copy of it. I have a couple of these hardback classics, as well as few yellowed Spanish books that are slightly falling apart. To be honest, for me, the copies are much more interesting than the stories themselves.
I can’t help but wonder how many people have owned this copy and loved it. How many times has someone turned it’s pages enraptured in the story it has to tell?
There’s stories from that story. And mine is just another in a million.
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