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Jane, I never meant to wound you thus...Will you ever forgive me? Reader, I forgave him at the moment and on the spot.

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
Meant
Wound
Reader
Jane
Moment
Spot
Moments
Spots
Ever
Forgive
Never
Wounds
Forgiving
Thus
Forgave

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Reader, I literally married him.
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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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Friends always forget those whom fortune forsakes.
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I can but die... and I believe in God. Let me try and wait His will in silence.
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Propensities and principles must be reconciled by some means.
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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.
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We wove a web in childhood, A web of sunny air We dug a spring in infancy Of water pure and fair We sowed in youth a mustard seed, We cut an almond rod We are now grown up to riper age— Are they withered in the sod?
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I have not broken your heart - you have broken it and in breaking it, you have broken mine.
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If men could see us as we really are, they would be a little amazed.
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I can so clearly distinguish between the criminal and his crime I can so sincerely forgive the first while I abhor the last.
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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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Better to try all things and find all empty, than to try nothing and leave your life a blank.
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Better to be without logic than without feeling.
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Life is still life, whatever its pangs our eyes and ears and their use remain with us, though the prospect of what pleases be wholly withdrawn, and the sound of what consoles must be silenced.
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In sunshine, in prosperity, the flowers are very well but how many wet days are there in life—November seasons of disaster, when a man's hearth and home would be cold indeed, without the clear, cheering gleam of intellect.
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I only want an easy mind, sir not crushed by crowded obligations.
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There is a perverse mood of the mind which is rather soothed than irritated by misconstruction and in quarters where we can never be rightly known, we take pleasure, I think, in being consummately ignored. What honest man on being casually taken for a housebreaker does not feel rather tickled than vexed at the mistake?
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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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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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The charm of variety there was not, nor the excitement of incident but I liked peace so well, and sought stimulus so little, that when the latter came I almost felt it a disturbance, and rather still wished it had held aloof.
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