At that moment of love, a moment when passion is absolutely silent under omnipotence of ecstasy, Marius, pure seraphic Marius, would have been more capable of visiting a woman of the streets than of raising Cosette’s dress above the ankle. Once on a moonlit night, Cosette stopped to pick up something from the ground, her dress loosened and revealed the swelling of her breasts. Marius averted his eyes.

In the opera we call love, the libretto is almost nothing.

She had had sweet dreams, which possibly arose from the fact that her little bed was very white.

All the forces in the world are not so powerful as an idea whose time has come.

The mountains, the forest, and the sea, render men savage; they develop the fierce, but yet do not destroy the human.

God created the flirt as soon as he made the fool.

I write with one hand, but I fight with both.