There is, I am convinced, no picture that conveys in all its dreadfulness, a vision of sorrow, despairing, remediless, supreme. If I could paint such a picture, the canvas would show only a woman looking down at her empty arms.

Mr. Rochester, I no more assign this fate to you than I grasp at it for myself. We were born to strive and endure - you as well as I: do so. You will forget me before I forget you.

It would not be wicked to love me." "It would to obey you.

I have little left in myself -- I must have you. The world may laugh -- may call me absurd, selfish -- but it does not signify. My very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame.

I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself.

But life is a battle: may we all be enabled to fight it well!

I think you will learn to be natural with me, as I find it impossible to be conventional with you