I was always a lover of soft-winged things.
There is a material advancement; we desire it. There is, also, a moral grandeur; we hold fast to it.
Close by the Rights of Man, at the least set beside them, are the Rights of the Spirit.
The miserable's name is Man; he is agonizing in all climes, and he is groaning in all languages.
These are dark radiances. They have no suspicion that they are to be pitied. Certainly they are so. He who does not weep does not see. They are to be admired and pitied, as one would both pity and admire a being at once night and day, without eyes beneath his lashes but with a star on his brow.
To rove about, musing, that is to say loitering, is, for a philosopher, a good way of spending time, especially in that kind of mock rurality, ugly but odd, and partaking of two natures, which surrounds certain large cities, particularly Paris.
Waterloo is a battle of the first rank won by a captain of the second
All who suffer are full of hatred; all who live drag a remorse: the dead alone have broken their chains.
He, who every morning plans the transactions of the day, and follows that plan, carries a thread that will guide him through a labyrinth of the most busy life.
True or false, that which is said of men often occupies as important a place in their lives, and above all in their destinies, as that which they do.
Nothing is more imminent than the impossible . . . what we must always foresee is the unforeseen.
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.
Man does not understand nor accept immortality except on condition of self-remembrance.
Such is the remorseless progression of human society, shedding lives and souls as it goes on its way. It is an ocean into which men sink who have been cast out by the law and consigned, with help most cruelly withheld, to moral death. The sea is the pitiless social darkness into which the penal system casts those it has condemned, an unfathomable waste of misery. The human soul, lost in those depths, may become a corpse. Who shall revive it?
Algebra applies to the clouds.
What says the law? You will not kill. How does it say it? By killing!
Life is a flower of which love is honey.
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.
She had had sweet dreams, which possibly arose from the fact that her little bed was very white.
Is it not when the fall is the lowest that charity ought to be the greatest?
People do not read stupidities with impunity.
For there are many great deeds done in the small struggles of life.
The convent is supreme egotism resulting in supreme self-denial.
Every step which the intelligence of Europe has taken has been in spite of the clerical party.
No one ever keeps a secret so well as a child.
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