"Wuthering Heights" by Emily Bronte: In any discussion of great romances, the usual couples get mentioned... Romeo and Juliet... Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy... Siskel and Ebert. But heard just as often are the names Heathcliff and Cathy, the two lovers in Emily Bronte's masterpiece, "Wuthering Heights."

Going in, I knew "Wuthering Heights" was considered a timeless romantic classic, so I was prepared to suffer through the usual sappy love story, full of stilted dialogue and pointless melodrama. Well, not so fast, Honcho. "Wuthering Heights" ain't no joke. It's a wonderfully twisted tale of love, longing, revenge, and obsession, told with remarkable skill and unparalleled craftsmanship.

Mr. Lockwood, a somewhat fancy English gentleman, opens the book, chronicling in his diary the events of his time at Thrushcross Grange, an old country house situated amongst the desolate moors of Yorkshire. Lockwood rented the property from Mr. Heathcliff, who resides at the nearby estate of Wuthering Heights. When the tenant pays a friendly visit to his landlord, he's greeted with icy contempt. I know the feeling. I get a similar reception at work, home, and all family reunions.

Undaunted, and desperate for company, Lockwood ventures back to Wuthering Heights a few days later. The second visit doesn't go any better than the first. Lockwood commits one embarrassing faux pas after another. He mistakenly addresses a beautiful young lady as Mrs. Heathcliff, believing her to be the host's wife, only to learn she is actually his daughter-in-law, Catherine Linton. Lockwood then assumes a rugged young man he meets is Mr. Heathcliff's son, but he's merely the servant boy, Hareton Earnshaw. Mr. Heathcliff's son is deceased. Ouch. Hard to get happy after that one.

Even Lockwood's attempt to leave goes awry, as Heathcliff's dogs take him down like a common burglar, leading to a nosebleed and further embarrassment. Heathcliff reluctantly grants permission for the injured Lockwood to spend the night at Wuthering Heights. The housekeeper shows him to a room normally shut off from all visitors, but the seclusion doesn't lead to a restful sleep. Lockwood finds the names Catherine Earnshaw, Catherine Linton, and Catherine Heathcliff scrawled about the room. He discovers the diary of Catherine Earnshaw, prompting nightmares and a frightening encounter with a ghost sobbing the name Catherine Linton. Lockwood's subsequent squealing awakens Mr. Heathcliff, who curses Lockwood for being where he doesn't belong. As the harried houseguest bolts for freedom, he hears Heathcliff crying for Catherine to return.

Lockwood spends the next several days recuperating at Thrushcross Grange, passing the time in conversation with his housekeeper, Nelly Dean, who used to be employed at Wuthering Heights. Nelly is intimately acquainted with the history of the mysterious house and all its various inhabitants. She relates the entire sordid tale, sparing none of the demented passion.

Narration is one of the many strengths of "Wuthering Heights." The detached narrator, who merely observes and reports the actions of others, is a common theme throughout classic literature, but Ms. Bronte takes it one step further, having Lockwood transcribe the recollections of Nelly Dean. Lockwood typically frames all of Nelly's accounts, introducing the circumstances leading up to their conversations and then commenting on them afterwards. But this extra filtration, from deed to witness to recorder, adds even more importance to the original acts, making them seem historically significant and worthy of folklore. It's a unique device, and Ms. Bronte employs it to perfection.

And Heathcliff is a character deserving of such magnificent technique. He is one sick dude. Heathcliff's undying love for Catherine Earnshaw, who spurned him in favor of social gain, drives him to commit unspeakable cruelties, exacting revenge in the most despicable ways imaginable upon those who wronged him. But, you know, it's the same old story: boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy digs up girl's dead body and torments her surviving family members until everyone shares in his misery. Aw, it's good stuff.

Emily Bronte published "Wuthering Heights" in 1847, just one year before she died at the tender age of 30. The book, written under the pen name Ellis Bell, was a critical and commercial failure. Audiences were shocked to read such a frank portrayal of obsessive love, with Heathcliff's sinister vindictiveness pushing it beyond the scope of standard Victorian fare. Genius is never recognized in its time. At least that's my excuse.

One of the great joys in life is picking up a book, not expecting anything, and then being totally blown away. "Wuthering Heights" surprised me more than any book I've ever read. It's amazing. Heathcliff is my hero. Go forth to love and spread the word.

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