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Something of vengeance I had tasted for the first time as aromatic wine it seemed, on swallowing, warm and racy: its after-flavour, metallic and corroding, gave me a sensation as if I had been poisoned.

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
Seemed
Poisoned
Wine
Tasted
Gave
Sensation
Firsts
Vengeance
Aromatic
First
Sensations
Corroding
Something
Revenge
Metallic
Time
Forgiveness
Flavour
Warm
Swallowing

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If men could see us as we really are, they would be a little amazed.
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The human and fallible should not arrogate a power with which the divine and perfect alone can be safely intrusted.
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You ask rather too many questions. I have given you answers enough for the present: now I want to read.
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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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When you are inquisitive, Jane, you always make me smile. You open your eyes like an eager bird, and make every now and then a restless movement, as if answers in speech did not flow fast enough for you, and you wanted to read the tablet of one's heart.
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I mean that I value vision, and dread being struck stone blind.
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All my heart is yours, sir: it belongs to you and with you it would remain, were fate to exile the rest of me from your presence forever.
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To you I am neither man nor woman. I come before you as an author only.
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He was the first to recognise me, and to love what he saw.
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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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Oft a little morning rain Foretells a pleasant day.
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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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I like this day I like that sky of steel I like the sternness and stillness of the world under this frost.
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Dread remorse when you are tempted to err, Miss Eyre remorse is the poison of life.
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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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He is not to them what he is to me.
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If he does go, the change will be doleful. Suppose he should be absent spring, summer, and autumn: how joyless sunshine and fine days will seem!
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