But he suddenly started up, and, closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake.
It wasn't the honey locust curving towards the honeysuckle, but the honeysuckle embracing the honey locust. No reciprocal concession: the one never gave up, and the others always curved.
What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. 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 to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it. - My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I AM Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don't talk of our separation again: it is impracticable; and...
So he shall never know how I love him; and that not because he's handsome, Nelly, but because he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire.
I forgot many things I thought I knew, and learnt many others that I had forgotten. I can see things at a great distance, and many others, close up, escape my view.
Very few may see where the road will take them before reaching the end.
It is a lot easier to cry "Stop!" than to actually stop.
A writer never forgets the first time he accepts some coins or a praise in exchange for a story. He never forgets the first time he feels in his blood the sweet venom of vanity and believes that, if he shall be able to hide to all his lack of talent, the dream of literature may give him a roof above his head, warm food at the end of the day and above all everything he had ever desired for: his name printed on a miserable piece of paper that will surely live more than he ever shall. A writer is for ever condemned to remember that moment, because by then he is already lost and his soul already has a price.
"Many miles separate us", said Legolas looking far away and creating some shade over his eyes with the palm of his hand. "I see a darkness in which some figures are moving, two great figures far off on the banks of the river; but what they are I cannot tell. It is not clouds or mists that blur my sight; there is like a shadowy veil, laid about the countryside by some strange force, which is slowly descending the course of the river. It looks like the sunset is sliding down the hillsides under the innumerable trees".
'Or may I not command my own servants?'
'You may,' said Gandalf. 'But others may contest your will, when it is turned to madness and evil.'