Because its reputation is undeservedly inflated, I got Wuthering Heights over a decade ago, and each of my attempts at reading it (at least 5-6) resulted in me dropping the book before page 30. To my astonishment, this time around I really enjoyed it . . . that was, until Chapter 12. The book steadily devolved so much to the point reading it filled me with fury. Emily Brontë was an unimaginative, dull, and talentless writer. There are 4 narrators within one other’s narration, and none of them have an inkling of a difference in voice. The book drags on with repetitions, and every single thing that happens is laughably overdramatic. It reads like a sloppy first draft than a final manuscript, and like written by an immature child. I’m thinking maybe the reason every single character is an idiot is because Emily has never been or been around someone who isn’t? We need to stop pretending every single old book is a classic, because we all know no objective evaluator today would do anything with this book other than mop spillage from the kitchen floor with its pages if they run out of tissue.