It repeatedly occurred to me that, for someone with such a strong love of reading, I haven’t read any of the so called ‘classics’ which the history of literature is literally besieged with. For what seemed like months I deliberated over which novel to begin with; for I could not just ignore this obvious reign of prominent fiction. I felt like I should recognise these novels by at least reading them, if only once. So I made a decision, I had chosen to read Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. The novel immediately intimidated me for on the blurb there read ‘One of the greatest love stories ever told’, to me it merely seemed like a vast exaggeration but I nevertheless persevered.

I had expected ‘old’ language, the type of narrative only a well educated peer could read. Instead I was pleasantly surprised. It was a novel of direct language, yet it was apparent why it was a classic. The description and tunnelling depths to the novel’s meaning were subtly woven into the effortless language. If ever you believe a novel is too advanced then remember this novel for its depths were indeed hidden yet clearly able to be appreciated.

I knew I didn’t completely know the plot before I read this but even I realised that the main character was Cathy. The relationship between Cathy and Heathcliff is as memorable as Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy so when she abruptly died a third of the way through the narrative I did not have a clue how the plot would proceed. However don’t let a twist like that spoil a novel because the remainder of the plot wove a complicated pattern of emotions. I knew then that the death of the stories protagonist was justified.

It wasn’t long before I’d read this book from cover to cover. Emily Bronte’s creation has effectively paved the way for my eclectic adoration of books and I’m sure it can continue to do so for others. A perfect book to open doors to other literature; I shall surely treasure it forever.