The author creates a book and the people accept or not accept it. The creator of a book is an author and the creator of it’s fate are people.
Those who do not weep, do not see.
To learn to read is to light a fire; every syllable that is spelled out is a spark.
He who opens a school door, closes a prison.
To die is nothing; but it is terrible not to live.
Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones; and when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace.
To love another person is to see the face of God.
Perseverance, secret of all triumphs.
Now life has killed the dream I dreamed.
Though one believes in nothing, there are moments in life when one accepts the religion of the temple nearest at hand.
It is the peculiarity of grief to bring out the childish side of man.
Winter is on my head, but eternal spring is in my heart; I breathe at this hour the fragrance of the lilacs, the violets, and the roses, as at twenty years ago.
It is sad to tell, but after having tried society, which had caused his misfortune, he tried Providence which created society, and condemned it also.
Paris is a sum total. Paris is the ceiling of the human race. All this prodigious city is an epitome of dead and living manners and customs. He who sees Paris, seems to see all history through with the sky and constellations in the intervals.
The sunshine was delightful, the foliage gently astir, more from the activity of birds than from the breeze. One gallant little bird, doubtless lovelorn, was singing his heart out at the top of a tall tree.
Whatever causes night in our souls may leave stars. Cimourdain was full of virtues and truth, but they shine out of a dark background.
The hand which moves over the dial moves also among souls.
What dangers you run, O noble souls! Often, you give your heart, but we take only your body. Your heart is left to you and you look at it in the shadows and shudder.
O darkness, the sky is a gloomy precinct Whose door you close, and whose key the soul owns; And night divides itself in half, being diabolical and holy, Between Ilis, the black angel, and Christ, the starry Human Being.
What would be ugly in a garden constitutes beauty in a mountain.
No power on earth can stop an idea whose time has come.