How do we see love? Is love something that is to transcend everything, even death? Does love makes one suffer depths of despair that the only release is death? Does love make us forget everything else and focus only on the object of affection? Does love force us to do everything possible, and beyond so as to exact every drop of its essence? Should there be barriers, are we all consumed to remove them and inflict grave injury and hurt on those who put them there? Possibly, but then again, we would really be off our rockers to do a Heathcliff However, Emily Bronte paints this picture of possessive and thwarted passion to great effect against the backdrop of the English moors.
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