Wuthering Heights

In a recent interview British actress Sheila Hancock said she thought the final paragraph of Emily Bronte’s novel Wuthering Heights was the most beautiful piece of prose ever written in the English language. I may not have read as widely as Hancock in her 72 years, however, I have to disagree. The pages between my fingers are usually more Harry Potter than Leo Tolstoy, but even with my seemingly low-brow sensibilities I have to profess Wuthering Heights to be the most beautiful novel ever written in the English language. Life and death, love and hate. Romance, obsession, deception and deceit. That’s why I’m no stranger to roaming the wiley, windy moors of Haworth, West Yorkshire, tracing the barren hills and rocky outcrops of Cathy Earnshaw’s carefree girlhood days.