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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.

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
Followed
Meet
Hear
Eye
Voice
Rochester
Night
Sleepless
Wanted
Feared
Wished

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You have introduced a topic on which our natures are at variance - a topic we should never discuss: the very name of love is an apple of discord between us. If the reality were required, what should we do? How should we feel? My dear cousin, abandon your scheme of marriage - forget it.
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On the contrary, I'm a universal patriot, if you could understand me rightly: my country is the world.
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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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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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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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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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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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That to begin with let respect be the foundation, affection the first floor, love the superstructure.
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I have a strange feeling with regard to you. As if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string in you. And if you were to leave I'm afraid that cord of communion would snap. And I have a notion that I'd take to bleeding inwardly. As for you, you'd forget me.
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I like the spirit of this great London which I feel around me. Who but a coward would pass his whole life in hamlets and for ever abandon his faculties to the eating rust of obscurity?
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Silence is of different kinds, and breathes different meanings.
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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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Unheard-of combinations of circumstances demand unheard-of rules.
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We know that God is everywhere but certainly we feel His presence most when His works are on the grandest scale spread before us and it is in the unclouded night-sky, where His worlds wheel their silent course, that we read clearest His infinitude, His omnipotence, His omnipresence.
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His mind was indeed my library, and whenever it was opened to me, I entered bliss.
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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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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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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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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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Die without me if you will. Live for me if you dare.
Charlotte Bronte