Really, it's another trench coat. It's just so dark that you can't see it's features...I'm at the point in Wuthering Heights where I hate almost every single character, except perhaps Nelly Dean and Hareton Earnshaw. I'm quite indifferent towards Edgar Linton... scarcely sympathetic towards Linton Heathcliff, who is becoming obscenely pathetic. But I absolutely despise Heathcliff... At least, for now. I know his past, know not of his origins, but his wickedness just oozes out of paper and scathes the heart whenever I see him. I just seethe with rage every time he speaks, it disgusts me.
How the hell did Emily Bronte make this story so compelling? The relationships are, literally, labyrinthine and her narrative forces readers to reconsider the validity of every uttered phrase. I trust, to distrust. A paradox that exist only to revivify the 19th century gothic novella. Genius.
Other than that little snippet of literature, I have a plight. A decision, actually. Should I or should I not sleep tonight? I have to wake up by seven tomorrow morning, for I shall be heading towards Omaha for the entire day~ I'm visiting the Joslyn Art Museum, the Henry-Doorly Zoo and the Old Market that I missed last month for the lit. fest. How very exciting indeed! Though I don't have the additional friend to immortalize this trip... This is distressing... Fret, I shan't. I'll find my way.
...
Holy $#!+ I sound way too archaic. I need to read something beyond the 19th century...
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