I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free;
Catherine cries this out in delirium, ill and shut in her room at Thrushcross Grange. She longs to be outdoors on the moors of her childhood, “laughing at injuries, not maddening under them”.
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.
I’ve dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas: they’ve gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind.
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.
A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.
A house divided against itself cannot stand.
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, / The Man’s the gowd for a’ that.