书名：Wuthering Heights 呼啸山庄
难度：Lexile蓝思阅读指数880L
作者：Emily Bronte
出版社名称：HarperCollins
出版时间：2010
语种：英文
ISBN：9780007350810
商品尺寸：11.1 x3.2 x 17.8 cm
包装：简装
页数：400 （以实物为准）

Wuthering Heights《呼啸山庄》是英国女作家勃朗特姐妹之一艾米莉·勃朗特的作品，是19世纪英国文学的代表作之一。小说描写吉卜赛弃儿希斯克利夫被山庄老主人收养后，因受辱和恋爱不遂，外出致富。回来后对与其女友凯瑟琳结婚的地主林顿及其子女进行报复的故事。全篇充满了强烈的反压迫、求自由的斗争精神，又始终笼罩着离奇、紧张、浪漫的艺术气氛。作品开始曾被人称作是年轻女作家脱离现实的天真幻想，但结合其所描写地区激烈的阶级斗争和英国当时的社会现象，不久又被评论界给予高度肯定，并受到广大读者的热烈欢迎。
《呼啸山庄》出版后一直被人认为是英国文学史上一部“奇特的小说”，一部“奥秘莫测”的“怪书”。艾米莉打破传统，率先采用了基本倒叙法，即小说的主体部分采用倒叙，只有开头的三章和结尾的四章是顺叙。作品运用梦幻、象征、预兆、隐喻的写作手法，以及神秘、怪诞的哥特式手法。鲜明精细的人物及环境描写，质朴而生动的语言，加强了作品的生活气息。
本书为柯林斯经典系列的全英文版，原版进口，小巧轻便，含历史背景及作者介绍（Life & Times），后附英语词汇注释（Glossary of Classic Literature），生词表采用《柯林斯英语词典》的解释，有助于读者学习理解。
HarperCollins is proud to present its range of best-loved, essential classics.
“Is Mr. Heathcliff a man? If so, is he mad? And if not, is he a devil?”
Set on the bleak moors of Yorkshire, Lockwood is forced to seek shelter at Wuthering Heights, the home of his new landlord, Heathcliff. The intense and wildly passionate Heathcliff tells the story of his life, his all-consuming love for Catherine Earnshaw and the doomed outcome of that relationship, leading to his revenge.
Poetic, complex and grand in its scope, Emily Bronte’s masterpiece is considered one of the most unique gothic novels of its time. 
Features:
·Life & Times—a fascinating insight into the author, their work and the time ofpublication
·Glossary of Classic Literature—useful words and phrases at your fingertips, taken fromCollins English Dictionary

这是一个爱情和复仇的故事。
呼啸山庄的主人，乡绅厄恩肖先生带回来了一个身份不明的孩子，取名希思克利夫，他夺取了主人对小主人欣德利和他的妹妹凯瑟琳的宠爱。
主人死后，欣德利为报复把希思利夫贬为奴仆，并百般迫害，可是凯瑟琳跟他亲密无间，青梅竹马。
后来，凯瑟琳受外界影响，改而爱上了画眉田庄的阔少爷埃德加。希思克利夫愤而出走，三年后致富回乡，凯瑟琳已嫁埃德加。希思克利夫为此进行疯狂的报复，通过赌博夺走了欣德利的家财。欣德利本人酒醉而死，他还故意娶了埃德加的妹妹伊莎贝拉，进行迫害。内心痛苦不堪的凯瑟琳在分娩中死去。十年后，希思克利夫又施计使埃德加的女儿小凯瑟琳，嫁给了自己即将死去的儿子小林顿。埃德加和小林顿都死了，希思克利夫后来把埃德加家的财产也据为己有。复仇得逞了，但是他无法从对死去的凯瑟琳的恋情中解脱出来，后来不吃不喝苦恋而死。小凯瑟琳和哈雷顿继承了山庄和田庄的产业，两人终于相爱，去画眉田庄安了家。
小说在现实生活的真实反映中表现出了浓厚的浪漫主义色彩。
The intense and wildly passionate Heathcliff tells the story of his life, his all-consuming love for Catherine Earnshaw and the doomed outcome of that relationship, leading to his revenge. Poetic, complex and grand in its scope, Emily Bronte’s masterpiece is considered one of the most unique gothic novels of its time.

艾米莉•勃朗特（1818～1848年），英国小说家，有名女诗人。与其姐妹夏洛蒂•勃朗特、安•勃朗特被人称为“勃朗特三姊妹”，驰名于19世纪的英国文坛。三姊妹出生于贫苦的牧师家庭，在寄宿制学校长大。1837年，艾米莉•勃朗特在乡村学校任教，因肺病离世，年仅30岁。她的作品富于哲理及神秘色彩，格调清新，节奏铿锵。长篇小说《呼啸山庄》是她一生仅有的一部小说作品，奠定了她在英国文学史上的地位。
Emily Brontë (1818–1848) was an English novelist and poet, best remembered for her only novel,Wuthering Heights. The novel’s violence and passion shocked the Victorian public and led to the belief that it was written by a man. Although Emily died young (at the age of 30), her sole complete work is now considered a masterpiece of English literature.

CHAPTER 1
1801—I have just returned from a visit to my landlord—the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with. This is certainly a beautiful country! In all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed on a situation so completely removed from the stir of society. A perfect misanthropist’s Heaven: and Mr. Heathcliff and I are such a suitable pair to divide the desolation between us. A capital fellow! 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.
“Mr. Heathcliff?” I said.
A nod was the answer.
“Mr. Lockwood, your new tenant, sir. I do myself the honour of calling as soon as possible after my arrival, to express the hope that I have not inconvenienced you by my perseverance in soliciting the occupation of Thrushcross Grange: I heard yesterday you had had some thoughts—”
“Thrushcross Grange is my own, sir,” he interrupted, wincing. “I should not allow anyone to inconvenience me, if I could hinder it—walk in!”
The “walk in” was uttered with closed teeth, and expressed the sentiment, “Go to the Deuce”: even the gate over which he leant manifested no sympathizing movement to the words; and I think that circumstance determined me to accept the invitation: I felt interested in a man who seemed more exaggeratedly reserved than myself.
When he saw my horse’s breast fairly pushing the barrier, he did pull out his hand to unchain it, and then suddenly preceded me up the causeway, calling, as we entered the court, —
“Joseph, take Mr. Lockwood’s horse; and bring up some wine.”
“Here we have the whole establishment of domestics, I suppose,” was the reflection, suggested by this compound order. “No wonder the grass grows up between the flags, and cattle are the only hedge-cutters.”
Joseph was an elderly, nay, an old man: very old, perhaps, though hale and sinewy.
“The Lord help us!” he soliloquised in an undertone of peevish displeasure, while relieving me of my horse: looking, meantime, in my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need of divine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no reference to my unexpected advent.
Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff’s dwelling. “Wuthering” being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed: one may guess the power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun. Happily, the architect had foresight to build it strong: the narrow windows are deeply set in the wall, and the corners defended with large jutting stones.
Before passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of grotesque carving lavished over the front, and especially about the principal door; above which, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins and shameless little boys, I detected the date “1500,” and the name “Hareton Earnshaw.” I would have made a few comments, and requested a short history of the place from the surly owner; but his attitude at the door appeared to demand my speedy entrance, or complete departure, and I had no desire to aggravate his impatience previous to inspecting the penetralium.
One step brought us into the family sitting-room, without any introductory lobby or passage: they call it here “the house” pre-eminently. It includes kitchen and parlour, generally; but I believe at Wuthering Heights the kitchen is forced to retreat altogether into another quarter: at least I distinguished a chatter of tongues, and a clatter of culinary utensils, deep within; and I observed no signs of roasting, boiling, or baking, about the huge fire-place; nor any glitter of copper saucepans and tin cullenders on the walls. One end, indeed, reflected splendidly both light and heat from ranks of immense pewter dishes, interspersed with silver jugs and tankards, towering row after row, on a vast oak dresser, to the very roof. The latter had never been underdrawn: its entire anatomy lay bare to an inquiring eye, except where a frame of wood laden with oatcakes and clusters of legs of beef, mutton, and ham, concealed it. Above the chimney were sundry villanous old guns, and a couple of horse-pistols: and, by way of ornament, three gaudily painted canisters disposed along its ledge. The floor was of smooth, white stone; the chairs, high-backed, primitive structures, painted green: one or two heavy black ones lurking in the shade. In an arch under the dresser, reposed a huge, liver-coloured bitch pointer, surrounded by a swarm of squealing puppies; and other dogs haunted other recesses.
The apartment and furniture would have been nothing extraordinary as belonging to a homely, northern farmer, with a stubborn countenance, and stalwart limbs set out to advantage in knee-breeches and gaiters. Such an individual seated in his armchair, his mug of ale frothing on the round table before him, is to be seen in any circuit of five or six miles among these hills, if you go at the right time after dinner. But Mr. Heathcliff forms a singular contrast to his abode and style of living. He is a dark-skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman: that is, as much a gentleman as many a country squire: rather slovenly, perhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence, because he has an erect and handsome figure; and rather morose. Possibly, some people might suspect him of a degree of underbred pride; I have a sympathetic chord within that tells me it is nothing of the sort: I know by instinct, his reserve springs from an aversion to showy displays of feeling--to manifestations of mutual kindliness. He’ll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to be loved or hated again. No. I’m running on too fast: I bestow my own attributes over liberally on him. Mr. Heathcliff may have entirely dissimilar reasons for keeping his hand out of the way when he meets a would-be acquaintance, to those which actuate me. Let me hope my constitution is almost peculiar: my dear mother used to say I should never have a comfortable home; and only last summer I proved myself perfectly unworthy of one.