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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.

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
Well
Assign
Grasp
Strive
Endure
Fate
Forget
Born
Wells
Rochester

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The writer who possesses the creative gift owns something of which he is not always master - something that, at times, strangely wills and works for itself.
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God did not give me my life to throw it away.
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A beauty neither of fine colour nor long eyelash, nor pencilled brow, but of meaning, of movement, of radiance.
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There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.
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... and she held out a pretty gold ring. 'Put it,' she said, 'on the fourth finger of my left hand, and I am yours and you are mine and we shall leave Earth and make our own Heaven yonder.'
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A depressing and difficult passage has prefaced every page I have turned in life.
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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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My love has placed her little hand With noble faith in mine, And vowed that wedlock's sacred band Our nature shall entwine. My love has sworn, with sealing kiss, With me to live -- to die I have at last my nameless bliss: As I love -- loved am I!
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I knew you would do me good in some way, at some time--I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you.
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Love me, then, or hate me, as you will, I said at last, you have my full and free forgiveness: ask now for God's, and be at peace.
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This is a terrible hour, but it is often that darkest point which precedes the rise of day that turn of the year when the icy January wind carries over the waste at once the dirge of departing winter, and the prophecy of coming spring.
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It is always the way of events in this life,...no sooner have you got settled in a pleasant resting place, than a voice calls out to you to rise and move on, for the hour of repose is expired.
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The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love within me, was claiming mastery, and struggling for full sway and asserting a right to predominate: to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last yes,--and to speak.
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Crying does not indicate that you are weak. Since birth, it has always been a sign that you are alive.
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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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The cool peace and dewy sweetness of the night filled me with a mood of hope: not hope on any definite point, but a general sense of encouragement and heart-ease.
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I tired of the routine of eight years in one afternoon.
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