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Give him enough rope and he will hang himself.

Charlotte Bronte

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Charlotte Bronte
Age: 38 †
Born: 1816
Born: April 21
Died: 1855
Died: March 31
Novelist
Poet
Thornton
West Yorkshire
Syarŭllotʻŭ Pŭrontʻe
Ш. Бронте
Syarŭllotʻŭ Bŭrontʻe
Xialuodi Bolangte
Шарлотта Бронте
Sharlotta Bronte
Charles Wellesley
Charlotte Bronte
Cārla$15ṭti Pirāṇṭē
Douro
Karlotta Bronte
Mrs. Arthur Bell Nicholls
Tree
Florian Wellesley
Lord Charles Albert
Currer Bell
Charlotte Nicholls
Mrs. A. B. Nicholls
Hsia-lo-ti Po-lang-tʻe
Give
Enough
Giving
Rope
Hang

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A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow.
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flattery would be worse than vain there is no consolation in flattery.
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And with that answer, he left me. I would much rather he had knocked me down.
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I longed for a power of vision which might overpass that limit which might reach the busy world, towns, regions full of life I had heard of but never seen: that I desired more of practical experience than I possessed more of intercourse with my kind, of acquaintance with variety of character, than was here within my reach.
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Tact, if it be genuine, never sleeps.
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God waits only the separation of spirit from flesh to crown us with a full reward. Why, then, should we ever sink overwhelmed with distress, when life is so soon over, and death is so certain an entrance to happiness -- to glory?
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Fair as a lily, and not only the pride of life, but the desire of his eyes
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You never felt jealousy, did you, Miss Eyre? Of course not: I need not ask you because you never felt love. You have both sentiments yet to experience: your soul sleeps the shock is yet to be given which shall waken it.
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I believe in some blending of hope and sunshine sweetening the worst lots. I believe that this life is not all neither the beginning nor the end. I believe while I tremble I trust while I weep.
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Thank you, Mr. Rochester, for your great kindness. I am strangely glad to get back again to you: and wherever you are is my home—my only home.
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Intelligence and proper education will give you independence of spirit.
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I soon forgot storm in music.
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Life is still life, whatever its pangs our eyes and ears and their use remain with us, though the prospect of what pleases be wholly withdrawn, and the sound of what consoles must be silenced.
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When you are inquisitive, Jane, you always make me smile. You open your eyes like an eager bird, and make every now and then a restless movement, as if answers in speech did not flow fast enough for you, and you wanted to read the tablet of one's heart.
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I like to see flowers growing, but when they are gathered, they cease to please. I look on them as things rootless and perishable their likeness to life makes me sad. I never offer flowers to those I love I never wish to receive them from hands dear to me.
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The negation of severe suffering was the nearest approach to happiness I expected to know. Besides, I seemed to hold two lives - the life of thought, and that of reality.
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A new chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play.
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Wise people say it is folly to think anybody perfect and as to likes and dislikes, we should be friendly to all, and worship none
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It is not violence that best overcomes hate -- nor vengeance that most certainly heals injury.
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Rapidly, merrily, Life's sunny hours flit by, Gratefully, cheerily Enjoy them as they fly!
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