It is from books that wise men derive consolation in the troubles of life.

There is no distress so complete but that even in the most critical moments the inexplicable sunrise of hope is seen in its depths.

There are fathers who do not love their children; there is no grandfather who does not adore his grandson.

We may remark in passing that to be blind and beloved may, in this world where nothing is perfect, be among the most strangely exquisite forms of happiness. The supreme happiness in life is the assurance of being loved; of being loved for oneself, even in spite of oneself; and this assurance the blind man possesses. In his affliction, to be served is to be caressed. Does he lack anything? no. Possessing love he is not deprived of light. A love, moreover, that is wholly pure. There can be no blindness where there is this certainty.

That men saw his mask, but the bishop saw his face. That men saw his life, but the bishop saw his conscience.

A sewer is a cynic. It tells All.

Her soul trembled on her lips like a drop of dew on a flower.