读完《呼啸山庄》,我平躺在黑暗的夜,睁大了黑色的瞳仁,探求一份不知面目的真实。大脑成为一张空白的幕布,呼啸山庄风雨飘摇的景象在幕布上肆意地晃动。黑色的风灌满了整个山丘,暗色的雨击打着脆弱的土地,吞噬了一切光明与美好,吱呀作响的木质地板,空空荡荡的房间。希斯克利夫独掌烛台,眼神游移于窗外无边无垠的黑暗,黯然绝望空洞,似一只无底的黑洞,忘记了守望的理由。初入呼啸山庄,满目大片的黑暗,就似凡·高《星空》中刺向天空的荆棘,彼此缠绕,纠结不清,永远无法摆脱,沉沉地沦陷。呼啸山庄似乎是我生命中经历的一 After reading Wuthering Heights, I lay flat on the dark night, widened the pupil of the black, to explore a real unknown. The brain becomes a blank curtain, the rolling scene of Wuthering Height on the curtain. Black wind filled the entire hill, dark rain hit the fragile land, devouring everything bright and beautiful, squeaking wooden floor, empty room. Heathcliff alone candlestick, eyes wandering the boundless darkness of the window, despair empty, like a bottomless black hole, forget the reasons for watching. Into the Wuthering Heights, the vast darkness, like Van Gogh “Starry Sky” thorn stabbing to the sky, winding each other, tangled, never get rid of, fall to the ground. Wuthering Heights seems to be one of my experiences in life