“The night is darkening round me, The wild winds coldly blow; But a tyrant spell has bound me, And I cannot, cannot go.”

Shall Earth no more inspire thee, Thou lonely dreamer now?

Time brought resignation and a melancholy sweeter than common joy.

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

My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world’s tide is bearing me along; Sterner desires and darker hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong.

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

She burned too bright for this world.

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

I pray every night that I may live after him; because I would rather be miserable than that he should be — that proves I love him better than myself.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

I am now quite cured of seeking pleasure in society, be it country or town. A sensible man ought to find sufficient company in himself.

If I could I would always work in silence and obscurity, and let my efforts be known by their results.

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

I cannot express it: but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is, or should be, an existence of yours beyond you.

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.

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

Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?

Workmen’s compensation, hours and conditions of labor are cold consolations, if there be no employment.

In 1968, I became a vegetarian after realizing that animals feel afraid, cold, hungry, and unhappy like we do.

My reasoning they may counter; my speech they may distrust; my apparel they may disapprove; my face they may reject; and even my bargains may cause them suspicion; yet my love will melt all hearts liken to the sun whose rays soften the coldest clay.

It is only when I dally with what I am about, look back and aside, instead of keeping my eyes straight forward, that I feel these cold sinkings of the heart.

A heart does turn cold unless it’s been treated with coldness for a while.

It was that kind of a crazy afternoon, terrifically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were disappearing every time you crossed a road.

Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself.