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

Emily
Brontë, fully Emily Jane Brontë, aka pseudonym Ellis Bell
1818
1848

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

Author Quotes

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!

Wish and learn to smooth away the surly wrinkles, to raise your lids frankly, and change the fiends to confident, innocent angels, suspecting and doubting nothing, and always seeing friends where they are not sure of foes.

You loved me-then what right had you to leave me? What right-answer me-for the poor fancy you felt for Linton? Because misery and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of your own will, did it. I have not broken your heart- you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine.

We'll see the same face of the wind toll. Does he also distorted in any other month of the two trees, destroying Was it? Heathcliff

With wide-embracing love Thy Spirit animates eternal years, pervades and broods above, changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears. Though earth and moon were gone, and suns and universes ceased to be, and Thou wert left alone, every existence would exist in Thee. 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.

You must forgive me, for I struggled only for you.

Well, I love the ground he walks on and the air around him and everything he touches, and everything he says. I like the features of it and all its actions; like him around. Ready!

Worthless as wither'd weeds.

You said I killed you - haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!

I heard of your marriage, Cathy, not long since; and, while waiting in the yard below, I meditated this plan - just to have one glimpse of your face - a stare of surprise, perhaps, and pretended pleasure; afterward settle my score with Hindley; and then prevent the law by doing execution on myself. Your welcome has put these ideas out of my mind.

I see heaven's glories shine and faith shines equal.

I, wretched creature finally had to lower my flag, after a long struggle until dark with gloom and loneliness.

'I'll be very kind to him, you needn't fear,' he said, laughing. 'Only nobody else must be kind to him: I'm jealous of monopolising his affection.

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?

Author Picture
First Name
Emily
Last Name
Brontë, fully Emily Jane Brontë, aka pseudonym Ellis Bell
Birth Date
1818
Death Date
1848
Bio

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