Slowly he took out the clothes in which, ten years beforem Cosette had left Montfermeil; first the little dress, then the black scarf, then the great heavy child's shoes Cosette could still almost have worn, so small was her foot, then the vest of very thich fustian, then the knitted petticoat, the the apron with pockets, then the wool stockings.... Then his venerable white head fell on the bed, this old stoical heart broke, his face was swallowed up, so to speak, in Cosette's clothes, and anybody who had passed along the staircase at that moment would have heard irrepressible sobbing.

That is the explanation of war, an outrage by humanity upon humanity in despite of humanity.

To breathe Paris is to preserve one's soul.

Popularity? It's glory's small change.

I repeat, whether we be Italians or Frenchmen, misery concerns us all.

If a writer wrote merely for his time, I would have to break my pen and throw it away.

To learn to read is to light a fire; every syllable that is spelled out is a spark.