The convent is supreme egotism resulting in supreme self-denial.

If a man has his throat cut in Paris, it's a murder. If 50,000 people are murdered in the east, it is a question.

The man who fights against his own country is never a hero.

If he had had all Peru in his pocket, he would certainly have given it to this dancer; but Gringoire had not Peru in his pocket; and besides, America was not yet discovered. (p. 66)

The eye of a man should be still more reverent before the rising of a young maiden than before the rising of a star. The possibility of touch should increase respect. The down of the peach, the dust of the plum, the radiated crystal of snow, the butterfly’s wing powdered with feathers, are gross things beside that chastity that does not even know it is chaste. The young maiden is only the glimmer of a dream and is not yet statue. Her alcove is hidden in the shadows of the ideal. The indiscreet touch of the eye desecrates this dim penumbra. Here, to gaze, is to profane.

Concision in style, precision in thought, decision in life.

Jesus wept; Voltaire smiled. From that divine tear and from that human smile is derived the grace of present civilization.