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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.

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
Writer
Strangely
Creative
Owns
Times
Possesses
Something
Master
Always
Gift
Masters
Creativity
Works
Wills

More quotes by Charlotte Bronte

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The man of regular life and rational mind never despairs.
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I believe that creature is a changeling: she is a perfect cabinet of oddities.
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Rochester: I am to take mademoiselle to the moon, and there I shall seek a cave in one of the white valleys among the volcano-tops, and mademoiselle shall live with me there, and only me.
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I scorn your idea of love,' I could not help saying, as I rose up and stood before him, leaning my back against the rock. 'I scorn the counterfeit sentiment you offer: yes, St. John, and I scorn you when you offer it.
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He turned away he threw himself on his face on the sofa. 'Oh, Jane! my hope - my love - my life!' broke in anguish from his lips.
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At heart, he could not abide sense in women: he liked to see them as silly, as light-headed, as vain, as open to ridicule as possible because they were then in reality what he held them to be, and wished them to be,--inferior: toys to play with, to amuse a vacant hour and to be thrown away.
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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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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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Of late years an abundant shower of curates has fallen upon the North of England.
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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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I could not unlove him now, merely because I found that he had ceased to notice me.
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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.
Charlotte Bronte
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Do you like him much? I told you I liked him a little. Where is the use of caring for him so very much: he is full of faults. Is he? All boys are. More than girls? Very likely.
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There's no use in weeping, Though we are condemned to part: There's such a thing as keeping, A remembrance in one's heart.
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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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Conventionality is not morality.
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Better to be without logic than without feeling.
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If men could see us as we really are, they would be a little amazed.
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He is not to them what he is to me.
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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