The wind of revolutions is not tractable.
Logic ignores the almost, just as the sun ignores the candle.
To a gargoyle on the ramparts of Notre Dame as Esmeralda rides off with Gringoire Quasimodo says. "Why was I not made of stone like thee?
Melancholy is the happiness of being sad.
In love, such a word, whispered, is a mysterious kiss of the soul to the soul.
When liberty returns, I will return.