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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...

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I ignored the pleasure that the written word may bring, the pleasure of penetrating within the secrets of the soul, of abandoning oneself to imagination, to the beauty and mistery of literary invention.

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And he piled upon the whale's white hump the sum of all the rage and hate felt by his whole race. If his chest had been a cannon, he would have shot his heart upon it.

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One believes that when the things are good, when they have taken the course of happiness, the road will be always in slope, it's enough to give more boost and the pleasure increases, it becomes breathtaking, and we will be more and more happy until we reach the trampoline of the fortune and we fly in the nirvana of the perfect ass.
It's not like this.
Quickly humps, bumps, pebbles in the middle of the street, and swerves outside the hairpin curves. And in front of us a great climb where you don't see the top.

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Words betray us, they never can transmit us what we want to say. But also we betray them, we should say what we have to say.

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Then I feel that I have given away my whole soul to someone who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer's day.

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Where there are so many, all speech becomes a debate without end. But two together may perhaps
find wisdom.

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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.

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"We did it, we bashed them, wee Potter's the One, and Voldy's gone moudly, so now let's have fun!

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She attracted him more than he liked.