"...surely you and everybody have a notion that there is, or should be, an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning; my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and, if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the Universe would turn to a mighty stranger. I should not seem part of it" (Ch. ix, p. 64).
Just finished reading Wuthering Heights. Earth shattering love in all honor, but what good did it do? And wherein lies the blame, which wretched character was responsible for the abstinence of love and the prevailing of misery?
The only warmth that fills my heart is the warm tea that I keep drinking at night.
