Charlotte Brontë (April 21, 1816 – March 31, 1855) was an English novelist and poet, the eldest of the three Brontë sisters who survived into adulthood and whose novels have become classics of English literature. She first published her works (including her best known novel, Jane Eyre) under the pen name Currer Bell. (Click here for full Wikipedia article)
A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow.
Better to be without logic than without feeling.
Cheerfulness, it would appear, is a matter which depends fully as much on the state of things within, as on the state of things without and around us.
Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last.
I am always easy of belief when the creed pleases me.
I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will.
I avoid looking forward or backward, and try to keep looking upward.
I can be on guard against my enemies, but God deliver me from my friends!
I feel monotony and death to be almost the same.
If all the world hated you, and believed you wicked, while your own conscience approved you, and absolved you from guilt, you would not be without friends.
If we would build on a sure foundation in friendship, we must love friends for their sake rather than for our own.
If you are cast in a different mould to the majority, it is no merit of yours: Nature did it.
It is vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquility; they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it.
Let your performance do the thinking.
Life appears to me too short to be spent in nursing animosity, or registering wrongs.
Life is so constructed, that the event does not, cannot, will not, match the expectation.
Memory in youth is active and easily impressible; in old age it is comparatively callous to new impressions, but still retains vividly those of earlier years.
Men judge us by the success of our efforts. God looks at the efforts themselves.
Prejudices, it is well known, are most difficult to eradicate from the heart whose soil has never been loosened or fertilized by education; they grow there, firm as weeds among stones.
The human heart has hidden treasures, In secret kept, in silence sealed; The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures, Whose charms were broken if revealed.
The soul, fortunately, has an interpreter- often an unconscious, but still a truthful interpreter- in the eye.
There is only one difference between a madman and me. I am not mad.
True enthusiasm is a fine feeling whose flash I admire wherever I see it.
Who has words at the right moment?