My first Brontë read for English class, Villette, has been fucking me up. It’s always striking to see parts of me in old literature, even in as strange a protagonist as Lucy Snowe.
Because I’m cynical and complacent and resigned:
I suppose the orb of your life is not to be so rounded; for you the crescent phase must suffice…I see a huge mass of my fellow-creatures in no better circumstances. I see that a great many men, and more women, hold their span of life on conditions of denial and privation. I find no reason why I should be of the few favoured. I believe in some blending of hope and sunshine sweetening the worst lots.
Because I’m recovering from heartbreak:
He had still such kind looks, such a warm hand…But I learned in time that this benignity, this cordiality, this music, belonged in no shape to me: it was a part of himself; it was the honey of his temper; it was the balm of his mellow mood; he imparted it, as the ripe fruit rewards with sweetness the rifling bee; he diffused it about him, as sweet plants shed their perfume. Does the nectarine love either the bee or bird it feeds? Is the sweetbriar enamoured of the air?
“Good night, Dr. John; you are good, you are beautiful; but you are not mine. Good night, and God bless you!”