A mother's arms are made of tenderness and children sleep soundly in them.

Gavroche had fallen only to rise again; he sat up, a long stream of blood rolled down his face, he raised both arms in air, looked in the direction whence the shot came, and began to sing.

Large, heavy, ragged black clouds hung like crape hammocks beneath the starry cope of the night. You would have said that they were the cobwebs of the firmament.

We say and exclaim within ourselves without breaking silence, in a tumult where everything speaks except our mouths. The realities of the soul are none the less real for being invisible and impalpable.

I believe in religion against the religious; in the pitifulness of orisons, and in the sublimity of prayer.

The aim of art is almost divine: to bring to life again if it is writing history, to create if it is writing poetry.

To be wicked does not insure prosperity - for the inn did not succeed well.