[…] there is no way to Wuthering Heights but for several miles by foot over the moors: how can I…

derangedrhythms:

[…] there is no way to Wuthering Heights but for several miles by foot over the moors: how can I tell you how wonderful it is: imagine yourself on top of the world, with all the purplish hills curving away, and gray sheep grazing, with horns curling and black demonic faces and yellow eyes, like ancient druids; black walls of stone, clear streams from which we drank; and at last, a lonely, deserted black stone house, broken down, clinging to the windy edge of a hill.

Sylvia Plath, The Letters of Sylvia Plath Volume I: 1940–1956 ⁠—  Aurelia Schober Plath, 2nd September 1956