#I think Cathy's and Heathclif.f's relationship has a lot of this but in general Wutherin.g Heigh.ts is full of these dynamics

[jacksintention]

Concerning the conversation about love and hatred, I've compiled a few of the lines I've saved through these last two years that at times make me think of Jack when it comes to this topic

Estas manos, que son tuyas,

pero que al verte quisieran

quebrar las ramas azules

y el murmullo de tus venas.

¡Te quiero! ¡Te quiero! ¡Aparta!

Que si matarte pudiera,

te pondría una mortaja

con los filos de violetas.

¡Ay, qué lamento, qué fuego

me sube por la cabeza!

(...)

¡Ay qué sinrazón! No quiero

contigo cama ni cena,

y no hay minuto del día

que estar contigo no quiera,

porque me arrastras y voy,

y me dices que me vuelva

y te sigo por el aire

como una brizna de hierba.

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Love has no middle term; either it destroys, or it saves. All human destiny is this dilemma. This dilemma, destruction or salvation, no fate proposes more inexorably than love. Love is life, if it is not death. Cradle; coffin, too. The same sentiment says yes and no in the human heart. Of all the things God has made, the human heart is the one that sheds most light, and alas! most night.

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It is sometimes said that the sword wears out the scabbard. That is my history. My passions have made me live, and my passions have killed me.

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Stronger than lover’s love is lover’s hate. Incurable, in each, the wounds they make.

I adore you, but I hate you too. You’re a prison smothered in flowers. I can’t stand this enchantment anymore, I can’t stand being bewitched like this–when I look at you, my gaze turns to nothing but a mirror of light, I’ll stare at you hypnotized for ages, and when I stop seeing you I’ll feel you, and when I stop feeling you I’ll die.

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Someone tells me: this kind of love is not viable. But how can you evaluate viability? Why is the viable a Good Thing? Why is it better to last than to burn?

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Life is a series of obsessions one must do away with. Aren’t love, death, God, or saintliness interchangeable and circumstantial obsessions?

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she is the only thing of importance, because I have a God-relationship to her.

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it is not she who binds me, but I who have made use of her to bind myself.

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The thought that you exist is so divinely blissful in itself that it is ridiculous to talk about the everyday sadness of separation—a week’s, ten days’—what does it matter? Since my whole life belongs to you.

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What have you done with me? he asks. I have repeated you.

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But I do feel strange-almost unearthly. I’ll never get used to being alive. It’s a mystery. Always startled to find I’ve survived

Walking home, for a moment / you almost believe you could start again. / And an intense love rushes to your heart, / and hope. It's unendurable, unendurable

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I clung to him as though only the one who had inflicted the pain could comfort me for suffering it.

I could be free … If I could pluck out the memory of him from my heart as easily as his heart was plucked from the fire, I could be free.

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I am imprisoned by devotion. I shy away from people. I am alone. I fall into depression.

She was the world That he was losing; and the world he sought Was all a tale for those who had been living, And had not lived. Once even he turned his horse, And would have brought his army back with him To make her free. They should be free together. But the Voice within him said: “You are not free. You have come to the world’s end, and it is best You are not free. Where the Light falls, death falls; And in the darkness comes the Light.

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I miss you like a knife in my throat.

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Only love can save me and love has destroyed me.

Should I be grateful or should I curse the fact that despite all misfortune I can still feel love, an unearthly love but still for earthly objects?

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My songs are filled with poison - Why shouldn’t that be true? My heart bears a nest of serpents And also, darling, you.

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their love is like hatred

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She did not yet love him enough to be cruel to him.

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our hatred is almost indistinguishable from our love

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under the sincere guise of hatred I simply loved […], only in this type of love (repulsion) I loved him with greater strength than had I loved him in the simplest form — attraction.

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Perhaps he was handsome, perhaps I found him attractive, perhaps he repelled me too.

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Struck by the abstract nature of absence; yet it’s so painful, lacerating. Which allows me to understand abstraction somewhat better: it is absence and pain, the pain of absence—perhaps therefore love?

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Eroticism is the brink of the abyss. I’m leaning out over deranged horror (at this point my eyes roll back in my head). The abyss is the foundation of the possible. We’re brought to the edge of the same abyss by uncontrolled laughter or ecstasy. From this comes a “questioning” of everything possible. This is the stage of rupture, of letting go of things, of looking forward to death.

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Love is madness. Doesn’t everyone agree that you’d do anything, endure anything, to be with the ones you love? So either you’re willing to let them use you with any sort of cruelty, so long as they keep you—which makes you a fool—or you’re willing to commit any cruelty, so long as you get to keep them—which makes you a monster. Either way, it’s madness.

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This madness is so deep-rooted and so useful that it is impossible to realize what would become of each of us if it were someday to disappear.

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If I must die of fire, why not let me die of yours: knowing that you are the author of my doom will make it more endurable to me

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His desire for loyalty was naive, he hadn’t understood that being loyal wasn’t so tidy, being loyal means being disloyal to everything else.

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I have always loved you / Always dreaded you

You will betray me, as I have betrayed, / And I shall kiss the hand that does me wrong

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Listen: the way I loved you / was like my palm over a flame.

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If I have the destruction of something that I once loved to carry with me at all times, isn’t it like I still have a companion?

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One can fall in love and still hate.

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and I will kill thee, And love thee after.

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Yet, other characters, namely Heathcliff, Catherine, and Lockwood, remain more actively at war with love in their adult lives. Some force, as inexorable as the wind sweeping over the moors, seems to have bent their lives into a pattern of frustration that their own struggle for relief only aggravates. Their need for love is expressed, not through loving, but through the anguish of loneliness. Paradoxically, though they do not know it, this loneliness is the one condition necessary for the fulfillment of their most profound fantasy concerning perfect love: a love, that is, perfectly protected against the threat of abandonment that in childhood these sufferers learned that love entails.

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I feel you there, in every pore. Your silence clamors in my ears. You can nail up your mouth, cut your tongue out — but you can’t prevent your being there. Can you stop your thoughts? I hear them ticking away like a clock, tick-tock, tick-tock, and I’m certain you hear mine.

Odi et amo. quare id faciam, fortasse requiris? nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

I hate and I love. Why do I do this, perhaps you ask? I do not know, but I feel it happen and it is excruciating.