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Heathcliff from “Wuthering Heights”Or read more by them than just Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre.
Every time someone calls this novel a great love story, I think Emily Brontë rolls over in her grave. This is a Gothic novel, not a romance, and all of the characters are terrible people, but none are more terrible than the principle male character Heathcliff. Heathcliff has been confused as a brooding hero for decades, when really he just a psychotic beast. He physically abuses animals as a child, and as an adult he physically abuses humans. Readers often feel sorry for Heathcliff and blame his actions on the fact that he is miserably pining for the love of Catherine Earnshaw. If you’re looking for a romantic male hero who is actually a decent human being, stay clear of the Brontë sisters. (Jennifer Perry)
Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester, Jane EyreAlso on the list are Mr Maximilian de Winter and Mrs de Winter from Rebecca, whose
Can we decipher this one? We lit majors sure love to try. Despite their tumultuous beginning, Jane and Rochester’s love does indeed last a lifetime. They both have their own demons to contend with, but even so, they are capable of loving one another deeply and completely. Why? They understand and respect each other. It takes a lot of pain and heartbreak for them to get there but in the ashes of Thornfield, Jane and Rochester finally began to understand how to be each other’s soulmate and companion. (Mariana Zepeda)
story mirrors Jane and Rochester’s, but Max de Winter and his dove-eyed bride don’t share the same unearthly connection as Brontë’s illustrious couple. (Mariana Zepeda)Entertainment Weekly shares an excerpt from Jo Nesbø's Blood on Snow.
‘Just something I read, Sir.’Stereogum reviews Billie Marten's album Heavy Weather which apparently
Okay, we don’t usually call people ‘Sir’ in Norway, no matter how superior they are. With the exception of the royal family, of course, who are addressed as Your Royal Highness. Daniel Hoffmann would probably have preferred that. The title of ‘Sir’ was something Hoffmann had imported from England, together with his leather furniture, red mahogany bookcases and leather-bound books full of the old, yellowing, unread pages of what were presumably English classics. But how should I know, I only recognised the usual names: Dickens, Brontë, Austen. Either way, the dead authors made the air in his office so dry that I always end up coughing up a fine spray of lung cells long after my visits. I don’t know what it was about England that fascinated Hoffmann, but I knew he’d spent a short time there as a student, and came home with his case stuffed full of tweed suits, ambition and an affected Oxford English with a Norwegian twang.
sounds like Billie Marten is holding a seance with Emily Brontë. It seems impossible that a teenager can summon towering, windswept emotions of a Wuthering Heights scale, but here we are. Using just an acoustic guitar and her voice, Marten pronounces each word with the precision of a single raindrop falling. (Caitlin White)