The women laughed and wept; the crowd stamped their feet enthusiastically, for at that moment Quasimodo was really beautiful. He was handsome — this orphan, this foundling, this outcast.

And so, being in Heaven, it was easy for him to lose sight of earth.

The miserable's name is Man; he is agonizing in all climes, and he is groaning in all languages.

Monsieur' to a convict is a glass of water to a man dying of thirst at sea; ignominy thirsts for respect.

When grace combines with wrinkles, it is admirable. There is an indescribable light of dawn about intensely happy old age. . . . The young person is handsome, but the old, superb.

Symmetry is tedious, and tedium is the very basis of mourning. Despair yawns.

Strong and rare natures are thus created; misery, almost always a stepmother, is sometimes a mother; privation gives birth to power of soul and mind; distress is the nurse of self-respect; misfortune is a good breast for great souls.