Sorrow is a fruit. God does not make it grow on limbs too weak to bear it.

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

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

Nothing can be sadder or more profound than to see a thousand things for the first and last time.

We say and exclaim within ourselves without breaking silence, in a tumult where everything speaks except our mouths. The realities of the soul are none the less real for being invisible and impalpable.

My misfortune is that I still resemble a man too much. I should liked to be wholly a beast like that goat. - Quasimodo

Marius was of the temperament that sinks into grief and remains there; Cosette was of the sort that plunges in and comes out again.