英文读书笔记Wuthering Heights3

Comments: 
Wuthering Heights is a well-written tragedy of love. After reading the whole story, I would like to talk about the main characters of the story—Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff. Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff do love each other very much, but they do not have the right attitude towards love, which leads to the tragedy.  
  In Catherine’s life, she made a very foolish decision---marrying to Edgar. In fact, her love for Edgar can never be compared to that for Heathcliff. She did so, because she thought the wealth of Edgar would be useful to help Heathcliff. But in reality, it did not work. She did not have a good understanding of love, which is something pure and saint. If anyone add any purpose into love, love itself lost its meaning. Catherine’s wrong decision hurt two people who love her, and even destroyed the happiness of their offspring. 
  Heathcliff is a man full of retaliation. He loved Catherine very much, but what he did, on the contrary, added to the misery of Catherine. In my opinion, if he really loved Catherine, he should not walk into Catherine’s life again after his disappearance. Further more, after the death of Catherine, what Heathcliff did brought agony to Catherine’s daughter, as well as his own son.  
  After reading, I have a better understanding of love. If you love really someone, his or her happiness is the thing that most matters.

GOOD SENTENCES 
He little imagined how my heart warmed towards him when I beheld his black eyes withdraw so suspiciously under their brows, as I rode up, and when his fingers sheltered themselves, with a jealous resolution, still further in his waistcoat, as I announced my name. 

We crept through a broken hedge, groped our way up the path, and planted ourselves on a flower-plot under the drawing-room window. 

It was beautiful - a splendid place carpeted with crimson, and crimson-covered chairs and tables, and a pure white ceiling bordered by gold, a shower of glass-drops hanging in silver chains from the centre, and shimmering with little soft tapers. 

Isabella - I believe she is eleven, a year younger than Cathy - lay screaming at the farther end of the room, shrieking as if witches were running red-hot needles into her. 

The long light hair curled slightly on the temples; the eyes were large and serious; the figure almost too graceful. 

She, supposing Edgar could not see her, snatched the cloth from my hand, and pinched me, with a prolonged wrench, very spitefully on the arm.