Wuthering Heights — the very name is enough to set the imagination vibrating. We hear it perhaps in a London street, for a moment the intricate roar of traffic and chattering people fades into stillness; and instead our mental ear is filled by the rush of streams, the shock and reverberation of thunder and the whistling of the wind over the moors. Nor is the sound fainter to us than it was to its contemporaries. Alone of the Victorian novels Wuthering Heights is undimmed even partially, by the dust of time. Alone it stirs us as freshly today as the day it was written.展开