Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights tugged on more heart strings than I expected it to. It follows the forbidden love affairs of two sets of Catherine’s and Heathcliff’s, Bronte’s naming of characters initially being so confusing though 100 pages in and with assistance of a family tree it eventually made sense. Wuthering Heights is melancholy in tone, the Yorkshire Moors seem bleak and dismal and it’s such a good book to begin autumn with. Every character is so problematic too, none of whom acting morally good in all situations and even the benevolent housekeeper and narrator making questionable decisions at times. This tension between characters and unpredictability of their actions was so engaging. I tried so hard to sympathise with characters and justify their actions, especially those of Heathcliff’s for so long as I wanted to see the plot through his eyes, but at one point I couldn’t justify him any more, and in solidifying himself as a true antagonist he became an incredibly fascinating character. Questionable as he was, his brooding and mysterious attitude was brilliant. Though Wuthering Heights baffled me initially for so long, once it got onto its feet it really ran.