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

All the human and animal manure which the world wastes, if returned to the land, instead of being thrown into the sea, would suffice to nourish the world.

The human soul has still greater need of the ideal than of the real. It is by the real that we exist, it is by the ideal that we live.

Gavroche had fallen only to rise again; he sat up, a long stream of blood rolled down his face, he raised both arms in air, looked in the direction whence the shot came, and began to sing.