No one knows like a woman how to say things which are at once gentle and deep.
The cruel of heart have their own black happiness.
Love is like a tree, it grows of its own accord, it puts down deep roots into our whole being.
Ah," cried Gavroche, "what does this mean? It rains again! ...If this continues, I withdraw my subscription.
The true artist can only labor con amore.
To know, to think, to dream. That is everything.