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I despise him for himself, and hate him for the memories he revives!

Emily Bronte

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Emily Bronte
Age: 30 †
Born: 1818
Born: July 30
Died: 1848
Died: December 19
Novelist
Poet
Thornton
West Yorkshire
Ellis Bell
Emily Jane Brontë
Aimili Bolangte
Emili Bronte
Emily Jane Bronte
Ai-mi-li Po-lang-tʻe
Ėmilii︠a︡ Bronte
エ ミ リ ー ブ ロ ン テ
Memories
Hate
Revives
Revive
Despise

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There is not room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void: Thou - Thou art Being and Breath, And what Thou art may never be destroyed.
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It is hard to forgive, and to look at those eyes, and feel those wasted hands,' he answered. 'Kiss me again and don’t let me see your eyes! I forgive what you have done to me. I love my murderer—but yours! How can I?
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My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods. Time will changeit,I'mwellaware, aswinterchangesthetrees. My Love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneatha source of little visible delight but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff.
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He had been content with daily labour and rough animal enjoyments, 'till Catherine crossed his path. Shame at her scorn, and hope of her approval, were his first prompts to higher pursuits and, instead of guarding him from one and winning him to the other, his endeavors to raise himself had produced just the contrary result.
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If I had caused the cloud, it was my duty to make an effort to dispel it.
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I'll be as dirty as I please, and I like to be dirty, and I will be dirty!
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If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn't love as much in eighty years as I could in a day.
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It’s no company at all, when people know nothing and say nothing,’ she muttered.
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I have dreamed in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind.
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You must forgive me, for I struggled only for you.
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Joseph is the wearisomest and self-righteous Pharisee who ever ransacked the Bible to rake the promises to himself and fling the curses on his neighbor.
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He’s more myself than I am
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wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers, for the sleepers in that quiet earth.
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I have fled my country and gone to the heather.
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Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves.
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The winter wind is loud and wild, Come close to me, my darling child Forsake thy books, and mate less play And, while the night is gathering grey, We'll talk its pensive hours away.
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Time brought resignation and a melancholy sweeter than common joy.
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They forgot everything the minute they were together again.
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I take so little interest in my daily life, that I hardly remember to eat and drink.
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I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow.
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