#wuthering heights readthrough

[greenbloods]

30 pages into wuthering heights and i have the bad feeling that heathcliff (40) and catherine earnshaw-linton (17) are a little more to each other than father in law and daughter in law. they start arguing with each other as soon as the narrator enters the room--a little too much--and even the narrator makes the observation that they cant be arguing like this all the time. the narrator even thinks they are husband and wife at first.

[greenbloods]

“Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff’s dwelling.  ‘Wuthering’ being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather.  Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed: one may guess the power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun.  Happily, the architect had foresight to build it strong: the narrow windows are deeply set in the wall, and the corners defended with large jutting stones.”

Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë

“The Gates of the Moon,” her uncle said as the party drew rein. His standard-bearer rode to the edge of the moat to hail the men in the gatehouse. “Lord Nestor’s seat. He should be expecting us. Look up.” Catelyn raised her eyes, up and up and up. At first all she saw was stone and trees, the looming mass of the great mountain shrouded in night, as black as a starless sky. Then she noticed the glow of distant fires well above them; a tower keep, built upon the steep side of the mountain, its lights like orange eyes staring down from above. Above that was another, higher and more distant, and still higher a third, no more than a flickering spark in the sky. And finally, up where the falcons soared, a flash of white in the moonlight. Vertigo washed over her as she stared upward at the pale towers, so far above. “The Eyrie,” she heard Marillion murmur, awed.

A Feast for Crows, George RR Martin