As he stood there, breathing in the morning air uncomfortably, his mind wandered rather quickly away from what he had seen. A party would be appropriate, the town slumbers in monotony as the men and women stand in anticipation outside the gates, waiting for a word, and that word is… Enter! And when that word is said the men and women will flock to these grounds like ravenous vultures and they will prey on what is left for them. And there will be much that is left for them. Graciousness is appreciated, it is smiled upon here at this cold, unforgiving time. And I am sick of roaming a house where I am only accompanied by servants and ghosts.
It’s often been questioned whether it is quite possible that the dead should rise from the sea and walk among the living once more. As a man of science I take no interest in old wives’ tales, myths, legends, rumour and whatever lies are told around the fire after midnight. However, on that night that I found myself upon the island I was brought to the wonderment of what exactly was possible. I stood, my feet, my chest and my sunburnt face unprotected from the slashing winds sailing in from the rushing seas, I could have cried out for mercy, an end to this weekend of torturous horror, but it would have been for naught.
Wuthering Heights might not be a thrilling tale of action, suspense and drama that you genuinely care about. I don’t think I can finish that sentence with anything other than “In fact, it isn’t at all, it’s the opposite” because after reading Wuthering Heights I can honestly say that it’s more boring than my attempt at reading War & Peace. That’s a lie, I never finished War & Peace, who has? (Pipe down at the back)