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Do you like him much?' I told you I liked him a little. Where is the use of caring for him so very much: he is full of faults.' Is he?' All boys are.

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
Much
Liked
Like
Faults
Boys
Told
Full
Use
Littles
Little
Caring

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Well had Solomon said,'Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.
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Everyone else is just cocktails.
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Friends always forget those whom fortune forsakes.
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I can be on guard against my enemies, but God deliver me from my friends!
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Mr. Rochester, I no more assign this fate to you than I grasp at it for myself. We were born to strive and endure - you as well as I: do so. You will forget me before I forget you.
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Tact, if it be genuine, never sleeps.
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I have no wish to talk nonsense. If you did, it would be in such a grave, quiet manner, I should mistake it for sense.
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Look twice before you leap.
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Strange that grief should now almost choke me, because another human being's eye has failed to greet mine.
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Intelligence and proper education will give you independence of spirit.
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The City seems so much more in earnest: its business, its rush, its roar are such serious things, sights and sounds. The City is getting its living - the West-End but enjoying its pleasure.
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I both wished and feared to see Mr. Rochester on the day which followed this sleepless night. I wanted to hear his voice again, yet feared to meet his eye.
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Self abandoned, relaxed and effortless, I seemed to have laid me down in the dried-up bed of a great river I heard a flood loosened in remote mountains, I felt the torrent come to rise I had no will, to flee I had no strength.
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There is no happiness like that of being loved by your fellow creatures, and feeling that your presence is an addition to their comfort.
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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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You mocking changeling- fairy-born and human-bred!
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The man of regular life and rational mind never despairs.
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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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Cheerfulness, it would appear, is a matter which depends fully as much on the state of things within, as on the state of things without and around us.
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To you I am neither man nor woman. I come before you as an author only.
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