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Because when she failed, I saw how she might have succeeded. Arrows that continually glanced off from Mr. Rochester's breast and fell harmless at his feet, might, I knew, if shot by a surer hand, have quivered keen in his proud heart - have called love into his stern eye, and softness into his sardonic face, or better still, without weapons a silent conquest might have been won.
— Charlotte Bronte
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Days begin and end in the dead of night. They are not shaped long, in the manner of things which lead to ends - arrow, road, man's life on earth. They are shaped round, in the manner of things eternal and stable - sun, world, God.
— Jean Giono
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