Give him enough rope and he will hang himself.
The human and fallible should not arrogate a power with which the divine and perfect alone can be safely intrusted.
The word book acted as a transient stimulus
After a youth and manhood passed half in unutterable misery and half in dreary solitude, I have for the first time found what I can truly love--I have found you.
The ease of his manner freed me from painful restraint; the friendly frankness, as correct as cordial, with which he treated me, drew me to him
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.
The eagerness of a listener quickens the tongue of a narrator.
Reader, I married him.
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.
But solitude is sadness. ' 'Yes; it is sadness. Life, however, has worse than that. Deeper than melancholy lies heart-break.
I had not seen "Pride and Prejudice," till I read that sentence of yours, and then I got the book. And what did I find? An accurate daguerreotyped portrait of a common-place face; a carefully fenced, highly cultivated garden, with neat borders and delicate flowers; but no glance of a bright, vivid physiognomy, no open country, no fresh air, no blue hill, no bonny beck. I should hardly like to live with her ladies and gentlemen, in their elegant but confined houses.
My home is humble and unattractive to strangers, but to me it contains what I shall find nowhere else in the world - the. . . affection which brothers and sisters feel for each other.
The trouble is not that I am single and likely to stay single, but that I am lonely and likely to stay lonely.
I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will.
as much good-will may be conveyed in one hearty word as in many.
Beauty is in the eye of the gazer.
No reflection was to be allowed now, not one glance was to be cast back; not even one forward. Not one thought was to be given either to the past or the future. The first was a page so heavenly sweet, so deadly sad, that to read one line of it would dissolve my courage and break down my energy. The last was an awful blank, something like then world when the deluge was gone by.
Is not the real experience of each individual very limited? And, if a writer dwells upon that solely or principally, is he not in danger of repeating himself, and also of becoming an egotist? Then, too, imagination is a strong, restless faculty, which claims to be heard and exercised: are we to be quite deaf to her cry, and insensate to her struggles? When she shows us bright pictures, are we never to look at them, and try to reproduce them? And when she is eloquent, and speaks rapidly and urgently in our ear, are we not to write to her dictation?
Men, in general, are a sort of scum, very different to anything of which you have an idea.
Reader, I literally married him.