This is Emily Brontë’s only novel, and whyever would she need another? Wuthering Heights is the dark distillation of all gothic romance, charged with violence and sex and alcoholism and hints of incest. The tortured, braided tale of dark, brooding Heathcliff and wild, sadistic Catherine, thrashing out there desperate urges on the freezing, rain-soaked moors, reads like it was scribbled by a brilliant goth-girl on tear-stained diary pages. One can’t say it better than Catherine herself: “I’ve dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas: they’ve gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind. And this is one.”