Going back

For almost two decades he had done this-

A lonesome figure etched in the jagged and rough-hewn landscape. Bold brushstrokes dominate this rural canvas, reflective of the triumph of pure primal instinct over blase human civilities. O, but it is a godforsaken place.

The wind tore at his black tresses with a vengeance equaled only by the dark of his eyes, enwrapped in the torture of his own accursed memories. He could smell it as it ripped past him, fetid with the smell of death and whatever evil conjured from being in the neighbourhood of the devil – himself.

Light jostled to enter windows long accustomed to shadow, and gradually, like a fever slow to subside, the sole residence of all his childhood joys became clear. He could see the moors, clouded, as usual, in their comforting greyness, the mere expanse of which grieved him further to think about what could have been a worthy embellishment.

Cathy.

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Two lessons learnt from this exercise. One, emily bronte is brilliant. Two, I would do better to just stop romanticizing heathcliffe and to divert my energies towards finishing the book instead. I have a feeling Burge is going to scream 'blasphemy!' any moment from now. But Wuthering Heights is getting more and more diabolical and depressing by the minute, which probably explains my sudden interest in the text. Oh well. Somehow Heathcliffe moves me more than Edgar, the reason to which is probably similar to the reason behind my sympathising more with Hareton than Linton. I hope this is not indicative of an innate villainy.