I had atrocious nightmares the other night after staying up late to read Wuthering Heights. And who wouldn't? In the few chapters I devoured that evening, Hindley stuck a knife in between Nelly's teeth, Heathcliff tied a handkerchief around the neck of a dog and hung him from a hook, Isabella was clawing Catherine's arm, leaving crescent shaped bloody nail marks...
No wonder my sleep time morphed into bad dream central. No sooner would I close my eyes than another new, twisted nightmare would commence.
But oh, this is a fabulous novel! I can't get enough! I have been absorbed completely into Emily Bronte's dark, macabre world! I want to read it always; on my lunch hour, at bed time, while commuting on the T. The Green Line was especially warm yesterday and left me feeling quite feverish and weak. I came home and immediately informed Hubby I probably had the consumption. There was also a good chance that in a few days time I would be stark raving mad. Bronte style.
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