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I like to see flowers growing, but when they are gathered, they cease to please. I look on them as things rootless and perishable their likeness to life makes me sad. I never offer flowers to those I love I never wish to receive them from hands dear to me.

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
Love
Growing
Flowers
Life
Wish
Receive
Like
Makes
Offer
Hands
Cease
Rootless
Look
Dear
Villette
Looks
Offers
Perishable
Things
Flower
Likeness
Never
Please
Gathered

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There is, I am convinced, no picture that conveys in all its dreadfulness, a vision of sorrow, despairing, remediless, supreme. If I could paint such a picture, the canvas would show only a woman looking down at her empty arms.
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That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of life that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself on sweet lies, and swallowed poison as if it were nectar.
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I envy you your peace of mind, your clean conscience, your unpolluted memory. Little girl, a memory without blot of contamination must be an exquisite treasure-an inexhaustible source of pure refreshment: is it not?
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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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Now it is not everybody, even amongst our respected friends and esteemed acquaintance, whom we like to have near us, whom we like to watch us, to wait on us, to approach us with the proximity of a nurse to a patient. It is not every friend whose eye is a light in a sickroom, whose presence is there a solace.
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The shadows are as important as the light.
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Let your performance do the thinking.
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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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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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Oh, I am not going to die, am I? He will not separate us, we have been so happy.
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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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Unheard-of combinations of circumstances demand unheard-of rules.
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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.
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A new chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play.
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To talk to each other is but a more animated and an audible thinking.
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To you I am neither man nor woman. I come before you as an author only.
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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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Shake me off, then, sir--push me away for I'll not leave you of my own accord.
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You never felt jealousy, did you, Miss Eyre? Of course not: I need not ask you because you never felt love. You have both sentiments yet to experience: your soul sleeps the shock is yet to be given which shall waken it.
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