‘I wish I could hold you,’ she continued, bitterly, ’till we were both dead! I shouldn’t care what you suffered. I care nothing for your sufferings. Why shouldn’t you suffer? I do!’
Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heigths
‘I wish I could hold you,’ she continued, bitterly, ’till we were both dead! I shouldn’t care what you suffered. I care nothing for your sufferings. Why shouldn’t you suffer? I do!’
Yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: they’ll blight you – they’ll damn you. You loved me – then what right had you to leave me?
The flash of her eyes had been succeeded by a dreamy and melancholy softness; they no longer gave the impression of looking at the objects around her: they appeared always to gaze beyond, and far beyond – you would have said out of this world.
I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free… and laughing at injuries, not maddening under them.
If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and, if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the Universe would turn into a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it.