Today is dear Charlotte’s birthday.
Her words have an almost eternal tone, with every syllable gracefully teetering on the edge of heaven. What an incredible gift she had!
And yet, she endured such an incredibly sad life. I suppose that’s what made her such an amazing writer.
No mockery in this world ever sounds to me so hollow as that of being told to cultivate happiness. What does such advice mean? Happiness is not a potato, to be planted in mould, and tilled with manure. Happiness is a glory shining far down upon us out of Heaven. She is a divine dew which the soul, on certain of its summer mornings, feels dropping upon it from the amaranth bloom and golden fruitage of Paradise. – – Villette
Charlotte Brontë: 21 April 1816 – 31 March 1855