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I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself.

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
Solitary
Esteem
Awareness
Respect
Care
Friendless

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Let your performance do the thinking.
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He is not to them what he is to me.
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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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Too often do reviewers remind us of the mob of Astrologers, Chaldeans, and Soothsayers gathered before 'the writing on the wall' and unable to read the characters or make known the interpretation.
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Out of association grows adhesion, and out of adhesion amalgamation.
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Wise people say it is folly to think anybody perfect and as to likes and dislikes, we should be friendly to all, and worship none
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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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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.
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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 transfix me quite.
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A waft of wind came sweeping down the laurel-walk, and trembled through the boughs of the chestnut: it wandered away-away-to an indefinite distance-it died. The nightingale's song was then the only voice of the hour: in listening to it, I again wept.
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You, sir, are the most phantom-like of all you are a mere dream
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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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You can write nothing of value unless you give yourself wholly to the the theme -- and when you so give yourself -- you lose appetite ans sleep -- it cannot be helped --
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I tired of the routine of eight years in one afternoon.
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Give him enough rope and he will hang himself.
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Monsieur, sit down listen to me. I am not a heathen, I am not hard-hearted, I am not unchristian, I am not dangerous, as they tell you I would not trouble your faith you believe in God and Christ and the Bible, and so do I.
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Make my happiness--I will make yours.
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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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I thank my Maker, that in the midst of judgment he has remembered mercy. I humbly entreat my Redeemer to give me strength to lead henceforth a purer life than I have done hitherto.
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