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I thank my Maker, that in the midst of judgment he has remembered mercy. I humbly entreat my Redeemer to give me strength to lead henceforth a purer life than I have done hitherto.
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
Mercy
Hitherto
Judgment
Humbly
Lead
Redeemer
Strength
Maker
Give
Makers
Done
Midst
Entreat
Giving
Remembered
Henceforth
Life
Thank
Purer
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A new chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play.
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You, sir, are the most phantom-like of all you are a mere dream
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He turned away he threw himself on his face on the sofa. 'Oh, Jane! my hope - my love - my life!' broke in anguish from his lips.
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It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquility: they must have action and they will make it if they cannot find it.
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Let your performance do the thinking.
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I like this day I like that sky of steel I like the sternness and stillness of the world under this frost.
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I mean that I value vision, and dread being struck stone blind.
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And with that answer, he left me. I would much rather he had knocked me down.
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Shake me off, then, sir--push me away for I'll not leave you of my own accord.
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Jane Austin was a complete and most sensible lady, but a very incomplete and rather insensible (not senseless) woman. If this is heresy, I cannot help it.
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The shadows are as important as the light.
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I scorn your idea of love,' I could not help saying, as I rose up and stood before him, leaning my back against the rock. 'I scorn the counterfeit sentiment you offer: yes, St. John, and I scorn you when you offer it.
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Writers cannot choose their own mood: with them it is not always hide-tide, nor --thank Heaven!--always Storm.
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We wove a web in childhood, A web of sunny air We dug a spring in infancy Of water pure and fair We sowed in youth a mustard seed, We cut an almond rod We are now grown up to riper age Are they withered in the sod?
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No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident of the red-room: it only gave my nerves a shock, of which I feel the reverberation to this day.
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Dread remorse when you are tempted to err, Miss Eyre remorse is the poison of life.
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I seem to have gathered up a stray lamb in my arms: you wandered out of the fold to seek your shepherd, did you, Jane?
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Oft a little morning rain Foretells a pleasant day.
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