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Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms now, you will fly, too, as your sisters have all fled before you: but kiss me before you go--embrace me, Jane.

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
Embrace
Arms
Fled
Dream
Jane
Sisters
Soft
Kiss
Gentle
Kissing

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God did not give me my life to throw it away.
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He is not to them what he is to me, I thought: he is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine- I am sure he is- I feel akin to him- I understand the language of his countenance and movements: though rank and wealth sever us widely, I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him.
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One does not jump, and spring, and shout hurrah! at hearing one has got a fortune, one begins to consider responsibilities, and to ponder business on a base of steady satisfaction rise certain grave cares, and we contain ourselves, and brood over our bliss with a solemn brow.
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As to the thoughts, they are elfish. Those eyes in the Evening Star you must have seen in a dream.
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I am not an angel, I asserted and I will not be one till I die: I will be myself.
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You transfix me quite.
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Que me voulez-vous?' said he in a growl of which the music was wholly confined to his chest and throat, for he kept his teeth clenched, and seemed registering to himself an inward vow that nothing earthly should wring from him a smile. My answer commenced uncompromisingly: - 'Monsieur,' I said, je veux l'impossible, des choses inouïes.
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The eagerness of a listener quickens the tongue of a narrator.
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Daydreams are the delusions of the devil.
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Out of association grows adhesion, and out of adhesion amalgamation.
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Unlawful pleasure, trenching on another's rights, is delusive and envenomed pleasure—its hollowness disappoints at the time, its poison cruelly tortures afterwards, its effects deprave forever.
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Is there not a terrible hollowness, mockery, want, craving, in that existence which is given away to others, for want of something of your own to bestow it on?
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Spring drew on... and a greenness grew over those brown beds, which, freshening daily, suggested the thought that hope traversed them at night and left each morning brighter traces of her steps.
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A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow.
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The idea of seeing the sea - of being near it - watching its changes by sunrise, sunset, moonlight, and noonday - in calm, perhaps in storm - fills and satisfies my mind.
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The practice of hinting by single letters those expletives with which profane and violent persons are wont to garnish their discourse, strikes me as a proceeding which, however, well meant, is weak and futile. I cannot tell what good it does - what feeling it spares - what horror it conceals.
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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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Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine. May you never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agised as in that hour left my lips: for never may you, like me, dread to be the instrument of evil to what you wholly love.
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Rapidly, merrily, Life's sunny hours flit by, Gratefully, cheerily Enjoy them as they fly!
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Conventionality is not morality.
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