by Emily Brontë.
Brontë classic, written just down the road from here.
After ten years living a few miles over the moors from the place that supposedly inspired Wuthering Heights, I thought it was about time that I read it.
Virginia Woolf said:
It is as if Emily Brontë could tear up all that we know human beings by, and fill these unrecognizable transparencies with such a gust of life that they transcend reality.
Kate Bush said:
Sylvia Plath (buried just across the valley from here) said:
There is no life higher than the grasstops
Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind
Pours by like destiny, bending
Everything in one direction.
I can feel it trying
To funnel my heat away.
If I pay the roots of the heather
Too close attention, they will invite me
To whiten my bones among them.
Heathcliff: what a total arsehole!