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I grant an ugly woman is a blot on the fair face of creation but as to the gentleman, let them be solicitous to possess only strength and valour: let their motto be:Hunt, shoot, and fight: the rest is not worth a flip.

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
Face
Fairs
Hunts
Fighting
Fair
Flip
Faces
Ugly
Grant
Woman
Creation
Motto
Worth
Grants
Solicitous
Strength
Possess
Blot
Fight
Gentleman
Valour
Rest
Shoot
Hunt

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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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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 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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Friends always forget those whom fortune forsakes.
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Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine. May you never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agised as in that hour left my lips: for never may you, like me, dread to be the instrument of evil to what you wholly love.
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Reader, I literally married him.
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He is not to them what he is to me.
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God waits only the separation of spirit from flesh to crown us with a full reward. Why, then, should we ever sink overwhelmed with distress, when life is so soon over, and death is so certain an entrance to happiness -- to glory?
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Self abandoned, relaxed and effortless, I seemed to have laid me down in the dried-up bed of a great river I heard a flood loosened in remote mountains, I felt the torrent come to rise I had no will, to flee I had no strength.
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If he were insane, however, his was a very cool and collected insanity.
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I mean that I value vision, and dread being struck stone blind.
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Thank you, Mr. Rochester, for your great kindness. I am strangely glad to get back again to you: and wherever you are is my home—my only home.
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It is always the way of events in this life,...no sooner have you got settled in a pleasant resting place, than a voice calls out to you to rise and move on, for the hour of repose is expired.
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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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You have rather the look of another world. I marvelled where you had got that sort of face.
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A new chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play.
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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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And with that answer, he left me. I would much rather he had knocked me down.
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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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I can but die... and I believe in God. Let me try and wait His will in silence.
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