Emily Brontë, fully Emily Jane Brontë, aka pseudonym Ellis Bell

Brontë, fully Emily Jane Brontë, aka pseudonym Ellis Bell

English Novelist and Poet best known for her solitary novel, "Wuthering Heights"

Author Quotes

What is that apathetic being doing?' she demanded, pushing the thick entangled locks from her wasted face. 'Has he fallen into a lethargy, or is he dead?

Yesterday, you know, Mr. Earnshaw should have been at the funeral. He kept himself sober for the purpose - tolerably sober; not going to bed mad at six o'clock, and getting up drunk at twelve. Consequently he rose, in suicidal low spirits; as fit for the church as for a dance; and instead, he sat down by the fire and swallowed gin or brandy by tumblerfuls.

Your presence is a moral poison that would contaminate the most virtuous.

What kind of living will it be when you - Oh, God! Would you like to live with your soul in the grave?

Yet I was a fool to fancy for a moment that she valued Edgar Linton's attachment more than mine -- If he love with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn't love as much in eighty years, as I could in a day. And Catherine has a heart as deep as I have; the sea could be as readily contained in that horse-trough, as her whole affection be monopolized by him -- Tush! He is scarcely a degree dearer to her than her dog, or her horse -- It is not in him to be loved like me, how can she love in him what he has not?

You're hard to please: so many friends and so few cares, and can't make yourself content.

What matters it, that, all around, danger, and guilt, and darkness lie, if but within our bosom's bound we hold a bright, untroubled sky, warm with ten thousand mingled rays of suns that know no winter days?

You and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence apart from us. What would be the sense of self has been created, if contained only in myself? The big disappointments I had were the dislikes of Heathcliff, and I felt each from the beginning: what is it makes me live. If everything else was over, and he remained, I would continue to exist, and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would become a huge unknown. My love for Linton is like the foliage of the forest. Time will change it, I'm sure, just as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks: provides a little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff!

What use is it to slumber here: though the heart be sad and weary? What use is it to slumber here though the day rise dark and dreary?

You are a dog in the manger, Cathy, and desire no one to be loved but yourself!

What vain weathercocks we are! I, who had determined to hold myself independent of all social intercourse, and thanked my stars that, at length, I had lighted on a spot where it was next to impracticable - I, weak wretch, after maintaining till dusk a struggle with low spirits and solitude, was finally compelled to strike my colors; and under pretense of gaining information concerning the necessities of my establishment, I desired Mrs. Dean, when she brought in supper, to sit down while I ate it; hoping sincerely she would prove a regular gossip, and either rouse me to animation or lull me to sleep by her talk.

You are my son, then, I'll tell you' and your mother was a wicked slut to leave you in ignorance of the sort of father you possessed.

Today I will not seek the shadowy region; its unsustaining vastness waxes drear; and visions rising, legion after legion, bring the unreal world too strangely near.

When weary with the long day’s care, and earthly change from pain to pain, and lost, and ready to despair, thy kind voice calls me back again O my true friend, I am not lone while thou canst speak with such a tone! So hopeless is the world without, the world within I doubly prize; thy world where guile and hate and doubt and cold suspicion never rise; where thou and I and Liberty have undisputed sovereignty. What matters it that all around danger and grief and darkness lie, if but within our bosom’s bound we hold a bright unsullied sky, warm with ten thousand mingled rays of suns that know no winter days? Reason indeed may oft complain for Nature’s sad reality, and tell the suffering heart how vain its cherished dreams must always be; and Truth may rudely trample down the flowers of Fancy newly blown. But thou art ever there to bring the hovering visions back and breathe new glories o’er the blighted spring and call a lovelier life from death, and whisper with a voice divine of real worlds as bright as thine. I trust not to thy phantom bliss, yet still in evening’s quiet hour with never-failing thankfulness I welcome thee, benignant power, sure solacer of human cares and brighter hope when hope despairs.

You fight against that devil for love as long as you may; when the time comes, not all the angels in heaven shall save him!

Treachery and violence are spears pointed at both ends - they wound those who resort to them worse than their enemies.

While enjoying a month of fine weather at the sea-coast, I was thrown into the company of a most fascinating creature: a real goddess in my eyes, as long as she took no notice of me. I 'never told my love' vocally; still, if looks have language, the merest idiot might have guessed I was over head and ears: she understood me at last, and looked a return - the sweetest of all imaginable looks. And what did I do? I confess it with shame - shrunk icily into myself, like a snail; at every glance retired colder and farther; till finally the poor innocent was led to doubt her own senses, and, overwhelmed with confusion at her supposed mistake, persuaded her mamma to decamp. By this curious turn of disposition I have gained the reputation of deliberate heartlessness; how undeserved, I alone can appreciate.

You have been compelled to cultivate your reflective faculties for want of occasions for frittering away your life on silly trifles.

Two words would comprehend my future -- death and hell: existence, after losing her, would be hell.

Why did you betray your own heart Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. ... You loved me - then what right had you to leave me? Because ... nothing God or satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of you own will, did it. I have not broken your heart - you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine. So much the worse for me that I am strong. Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you - oh God! would you like to live with your soul in the grave? [...] I forgive what you have done to me. I love my murderer - but yours! How can I?

You have left me so long to struggle against death, alone, that I feel and see only death! I feel like death!

We must be for ourselves in the long run; the mild and generous are only more justly selfish than the domineering.

Winter is not here yet. There’s a little flower, up yonder, the last bud from the multitude of bluebells that clouded those turf steps in July with a lilac mist. Will you clamber up and pluck it to show papa?

You know that I could as soon forget you as my existence!

Well I love the ground he walks on and the air we breathe and everything it touches and what he says. I like the way they look and behave, I like all of it up and down. That's it!

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Brontë, fully Emily Jane Brontë, aka pseudonym Ellis Bell
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English Novelist and Poet best known for her solitary novel, "Wuthering Heights"