It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn.

I'll be as dirty as I please, and I like to be dirty, and I will be dirty!

May you not rest, as long as I am living. You said I killed you - haunt me, then.

How strange! I thought, though everybody hated and despised each other, they could not avoid loving me.

Oh, I'm burning! I wish I were out of doors! I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free... and laughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I so changed?

I have lost the faculty of enjoying their destruction, and I am too idle to destroy for nothing.

You said I killed you-haunt me, then! [...] Be with me always-take any form-drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!

How cruel, your veins are full of ice-water and mine are boiling.

The entire world is a collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her.

I have no pity! I have no pity! The more worms writhe, the more I yearn to crush out their entrails! It is a moral teething, and I grind with greater energy, in proportion to the increase of pain.

Terror made me cruel; and finding it useless to attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist on to the broken pane, and rubbed it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the bedclothes...

I am Heathcliff!

I have fled my country and gone to the heather.

The old church tower and garden wall Are black with autumn rain And dreary winds foreboding call The darkness down again

Parting is all we know of heaven And all we need of hell

Will that light come again, As now these tears come...falling hot and real!

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange And be all to me?

Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done.

I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me.

My patience has dreadful chilblains from standing so long on a monument.

I am one who could have forgotten the plague, listening to Boccaccio's stories; and I am not ashamed of it.

I begin to think that none are so bold as the timid, when they are fairly roused.

The widest land Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine With pulses that beat double. What I do And what I dream include thee, as the wine Must taste of its own grapes.

The soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak, And placed it by thee on a golden throne, -- And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!) Is by thee only, whom I love alone.