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Quote by Anne Brontë

“It must be a great consolation to you to have a home, Miss Grey,” observed my companion after a short pause: “however remote, or however seldom visited, still it is something to look to.”

Quote by Anne Brontë

Book:Agnes Grey
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Agnes Grey

This book is a semi-autobiographical account of the author's own experiences as a governess, offering a glimpse into the social and domestic life of the British upper class during the early 19th century. The narrative follows the protagonist, Agnes Grey, as she navigates the challenges and complexities of her position, revealing insights into the role of women in society at the time. more

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Anne Brontë

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“Rhys pressed a kiss to my hair. 'You're home.' A shuddering, small sound came out of me as I nodded, squeezing him tighter. Home. Not just Velaris, but wherever he was, our family was. Ebony claws stroked along the barrier in my mind- in affection and request. I lowed my shields for him, just as his own dropped. His mind curled around mine, as surely as his body now held me. 'I missed you every moment, ' Rhys said, leaning down to kiss the corner of my mouth. 'Your smile.' His lips grazed over the shell of my ear and my back arched slightly. 'Your laugh.' He pressed a kiss to my neck, right beneath my ear, and I titled my head to give him access, biting down the urge to beg him to take more, to take faster as he murmured, 'Your scent.”

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“As she stepped through the front door onto the verandah, a warm breeze brushed her face and she felt a heavy wave of deep familiarity: the smell of eucalyptus and sunbaked dirt, the light so bright it put creases around her eyes just to look at it. The slender blue gums on the ridge, ancient and watchful. This was the landscape of her childhood and she would never be able to escape its influence. But just as Daniel Miller had brought her to Halcyon, the books that she'd read as a child, lying beneath the ferns at Darling House, had taken her to lands where trees with names like oak and chestnut and elm grew in great, ancient forests, and the soil was moist and the sun was gentle, where there were magical words like "hedgerow" and "conker," and snow kissed the glass of windows in winter, and children went sledding at Christmas and ate "pudding" and "blancmange." And so, she had come to know another landscape, not just intellectually, but viscerally: a landscape of the imagination as real to her as the geographical landscape in which she moved. When she first arrived in England as a twenty-year-old graduate, she had stepped off the plane and known it already. Standing here now, looking across the valley toward the facing hill, Jess could imagine how homesick Isabel must have felt at times. She herself had been thinking about "home" a lot. Home, she'd realized, wasn't a place or a time or a person, though it could be any and all of those things: home was a feeling, a sense of being complete. The opposite of "home" wasn't "away", it was "lonely." When someone said, "I want to go home," what they really meant was that they didn't want to feel lonely anymore.”

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“Memories are a bit like houses, don’t you think? They scaffold all this stuff. Curate it; give things a place so you feel safe and secure. And you step through the rooms and remember what was. But it’s not real, they’re just walls. And before you know it, most of your life is just memories, some of them not even that clear. And it’s just a house that reminds you what it felt like when you thought it was a home. You don’t realize how ephemeral it is. How temporary. That it’s just all going to be something you remember. And the memories that made you feel safe, made you feel like you, are just a flimsy reminder of what’s gone to dust and that every second that passes is going to be the same, just something you remember.” She stares back at the house. “Past is past. The dead don’t come back. Maybe it’s best just to let them go.”

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“This is our climate. We have grown up in this air, this light, and we grasp it on our skin, where it grasps us. We know this earth, this grass, this polished red stone with the soles of our feet. We will never be ourselves anywhere else. Happier, perhaps, healthier, less burdened, more secure. But we will never be closer to who we are than this.”

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Book:Portrait with Keys: The City of Johannesburg Unlocked
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