Wuthering perhaps isn’t even a real word. Yet, I can picture the stormy moors, the desolate land, the wild winds. I can picture the dark night against which stands the lonely manor where the two doomed lovers live. For their bodies might be buried, but their tumultuous, destructing, indestructible love is alive. Running rampant through all time. The book was first published in 1847. A reticent cloistered girl had written a novel of passion and feelings that broke all…
