The House That Hate Built There's a particular kind of reader who finishes Wuthering Heights and immediately wants to read it again—not because they loved it, exactly, but because they're not sure what just hit them. Emily Brontë's only novel does that. It unsettles. It lingers like damp moorland fog in your clothes, and the more you poke at it, the stranger it gets. Start with Nelly Dean. She's supposed to be our reliable guide, the housekeeper who's seen everything, but read her twice and you start wondering: who's really the villain here? She withholds crucial information, manipulates both Catherine and Heathcliff, and frames the entire story to ensure her own comfortable survival within the household. The "tragedy" might be partly her construction. "Then there's that famous declaration—'I am Heathcliff'—which sounds romantic until you realize Catherine might be experiencing a complete linguisti...
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