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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.

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
Life
Breaths
Eyre
Fantastic
Nectar
Lies
Breathed
Fool
Swallowed
Sweet
Jane
Greater
Poison
Lying
Idiot
Never
Breath

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As far as my experience of matrimony goes -- I think it tends to draw you out of, and away from yourself.
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If life be a war, it seemed my destiny to conduct it single-handed.
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He is not to them what he is to me.
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I mean that I value vision, and dread being struck stone blind.
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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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... 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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After a youth and manhood passed half in unutterable misery and half in dreary solitude, I have for the first time found what I can truly love--I have found you.
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It would not be wicked to love me. It would to obey you.
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That to begin with let respect be the foundation, affection the first floor, love the superstructure.
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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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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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The man of regular life and rational mind never despairs.
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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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I wished critics would judge me as an author, not as a woman.
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Would you not be happier if you tried to forget her severity, together with the passionate emotions it excited? Life appears to me too short to be spent in nursing animosity, or registering wrongs.
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But what is so headstrong as youth? What so blind as inexperience?
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A new chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play.
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I believe in some blending of hope and sunshine sweetening the worst lots. I believe that this life is not all neither the beginning nor the end. I believe while I tremble I trust while I weep.
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It is a long way off, sir From what Jane? From England and from Thornfield: and ___ Well? From you, sir
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