Emily Brontë's only novel, written in a Yorkshire parsonage, published under a male pseudonym, and dead within a year of publication at twenty-nine. The love between Heathcliff and Catherine is not romantic in any comfortable sense: it is elemental, destructive, and cannot be contained by life or death. The narrative structure, layered through multiple tellers, creates deliberate disorientation. The moor is as much a character as any human. No Victorian novel is stranger, and few works of English literature have generated such passionate devotion.