What is a child, monsieur, but the image of two beings, the fruit of two sentiments spontaneously blended?

In a world of hunchbacks, a fine figure becomes a monstrosity.

Hatred like love feeds on the merest trifles.

Small natures require despotism to exercise their sinews, as great souls thirst for equality to give play to their heart.

With every one, the expectation of a misfortune constitutes a dreadful, punishment. Suffering then assumes the proportions of the unknown, which is the soul's infinite.

Are not poets men who fulfill their hopes prematurely?

A great writer is nothing less than a martyr who does not die.