'Favourite' can mean so many different things; for some, a 'favourite' book could be akin to a comfort blanket, something you return to, again and again, secure in the knowledge of what it can offer you by way of reassuring predictability and sturdy unquestioning comfort.
For others, a book that is placed in the category of 'favourites' is something that stunned you with a visceral electric shock when you read it, a book which had you breathless with stupefied awe, a book you couldn't put down until you had finished it, and a book - which, while you may not choose to re-read it very often - is one you can never forget.
For me, 'Wuthering Heights' by Emily Bronte falls into this latter category. I came across it on the bookshelves of a very well stocked library in five languages in the flat of an academic from whom I was renting the flat in the Old Town of Vilnius, a little over twenty years ago, not long after The Wall Came Down.
Strangely enough, I hadn't read it prior to that. This was a book which came with loads of baggage and an awful lot of hype, so much hype, in fact, that I doubted very much whether the book could live up to its reputation, and I feared an anti-climax when I finally decided to read it.
Anyway, one night, out of idle curiosity, I picked it up, and decided to check it out, mainly to see whether or not it justified its reputation, whether it really was as good as it was supposed to be.
Thus, I began to read it, and - but, of course, inevitably - fell into the story, for this is an electrifying story that grabs you by the throat - and I carried on reading it through the night, - stopping once to draw breath, and make a cup of coffee - but unable to put it down, and finally came to the end, sprawled on my bed, still fully dressed as I had been over eight hours earlier when I had first opened it, silent with stunned wonder at the awesome power of this tale.
