A book is as much about the reader, as it is about the writer.  During the Corona lockdown, when I revisited some of the classics, I realised how true this was. After two decades, every one of the books read differently. Some of them were so contrary to my recollection, that I wondered if I was even reading the same book.   Wuthering Heights : Heathcliff, as I remembered him, was a passionate lover, but what I found between the pages now, was an implacable bully – driven by rash impulses and a fierce temper. While his brutish behaviour was probably acceptable in the wilds of Yorkshire moors,...