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He turned, as he spoke, a peculiar look in her direction, a look of hatred unless he has a most perverse set of facial muscles that will not, like those of other people, interpret the language of his soul.

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
People
Hatred
Perverse
Turned
Facial
Unless
Interpret
Language
Spokes
Soul
Spoke
Look
Peculiar
Looks
Muscles
Like
Direction

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The entire world is a collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her.
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We must be for ourselves in the long run the mild and generous are only more justly selfish than the domineering.
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I have fled my country and gone to the heather.
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And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?
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Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree.
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Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves. But if you be afraid of your touchiness, you must ask pardon, mind, when she comes in.
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Nonsense, do you imagine he has thought as much of you as you have of him?
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I see heaven's glories shine and faith shines equal.
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Though earth and man were gone, And suns and universes ceased to be, And Thou wert left alone, Every existence would exist in Thee.
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I gave him my heart, and he took and pinched it to death and flung it back to me. People feel with their hearts, Ellen, and since he has destroyed mine, I have not power to feel for him.
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I gave him my heart, and he took and pinched it to death and flung it back to me.
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Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves.
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Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living.
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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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But you might as well bid a man struggling in the water, rest within arm's length of the shore! I must reach it first, and then I'll rest.
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And from the midst of cheerless gloom I passed to bright unclouded day.
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How strange! I thought, though everybody hated and despised each other, they could not avoid loving me.
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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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I despise him for himself, and hate him for the memories he revives!
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You're hard to please: so many friends and so few cares, and can't make yourself content.
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