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Oh, for the time when I shall sleep Without identity.
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
Sleep
Death
Without
Time
Identity
Shall
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My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.
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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 have fled my country and gone to the heather.
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You must forgive me, for I struggled only for you.
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Heaven did not seem to be my home and I broke my heart with weeping to come back to earth and the angels were so angry that they flung me out into the middle of the heath on the top of Wuthering Heights where I woke sobbing for joy.
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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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Cathy, this lamb of yours threatens like a bull!' he said. 'It is in danger of splitting its skull against my knuckles. By God! Mr. Linton, I'm mortally sorry that you are not worth knocking down!
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Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living.
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I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow.
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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.
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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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The old church tower and garden wall Are black with autumn rain And dreary winds foreboding call The darkness down again
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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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Alas, for the effects of bad tea and bad temper!
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No coward soul is mine.
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If I were in heaven, Nelly, I should be extremely miserable. Because you are not fit to go there, I answered. All sinners would be miserable in heaven.
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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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I despise him for himself, and hate him for the memories he revives!
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