The death agony of the barricade was about to begin.For, since the preceding evening, the two rows of houses in the Rue de la Chanvrerie had become two walls; ferocious walls, doors closed, windows closed, shutters closed. A house is an escarpment, a door is a refusal, a facade is a wall. This wall hears, sees and will not. It might open and save you. No. This wall is a judge. It gazes at you and condemns you. What dismal things are closed houses.

What is fright by night is curiosity by day.

There are no trifles in the human story, no trifling leaves on the tree.

Jean Prouvaire was timid only in repose. Once excited, he burst forth, a sort of mirth accentuated his enthusiasm, and he was at once both laughing and lyric.

As a means of contrast with the sublime, the grotesque is, in our view, the richest source that nature can offer.

Liberation is not deliverance.

Scepticism, that dry caries of the intelligence.