How odd it is that we so often weep for each other’s distresses, when we shed not a tear for our own!

— Anne Brontë

How shall I get through the months or years of my future life, in company with that man -- my greatest enemy -- for none could injure me as he has done? Oh! When I think how fondly, how foolishly I have loved him, how madly I have trusted him, how constantly I have labored, and studied, and prayed, and struggled for his advantage, and how cruelly he has trampled on my love, betrayed my trust, scorned my prayers and tears, and efforts for his preservation --crushed my hopes, destroyed my youth's best feelings, and doomed me to a life of hopeless misery -- as far as man can do it -- it is not enough to say that I no longer love my husband -- I HATE him! The word stares me in the face like a guilty confession, but it is true: I hate him -- I hate him!

— Anne Brontë

I am satisfied that if a book is a good one, it is so whatever the sex of the author may be. All novels are or should be written for both men and women to read, and I am at a loss to conceive how a man should permit himself to write anything that would be really disgraceful to a woman, or why a woman should be censured for writing anything that would be proper and becoming for a man.

— Anne Brontë

I am sorry, Miss Grey, you should think it's necessary to interfere with Master Bloomfield's amusements; he was very much distressed about you destroying the birds.'' When Master Bloomfield's amusements consist in injuring sentient creatures,' I answered, 'I think it is my duty to interfere.'' You seemed to have forgotten,' said she, calmly, 'that the creatures were all created for our convenience.' I thought that doctrine admitted some doubt, but merely replied - 'If they were, we have no right to torment them for our amusement.

— Anne Brontë

I cannot love a man who cannot protect me.

— Anne Brontë

I don’t know how to talk to you, Mrs. Huntingdon. . . You are only half a woman--your nature must be half human, half angelic. Such goodness overawes me; I don’t know what to make of it.

— Anne Brontë

If we can only speak to slander our betters, let us hold our tongues.

— Anne Brontë

If you had a boy to despise his mother, let her keep him at home, and spend her life in petting him up, and slaving to indulge his follies and caprices.

— Anne Brontë

If you would really study my pleasure, mother, you must consider your own comfort and convenience a little more than you do.

— Anne Brontë

I gave up hoping... But, still, I would think of him, I would cherish his image in my mind, and treasure every word, look and gesture that memory could retain.

— Anne Brontë