Victor Hugo Quotes
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Melancholy is the happiness of being sad.
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Since we shall love each other, I shall be great and you shall be rich.
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I have been loving you a little more every minute since this morning.
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There is in every village a torch - the teacher; and an extinguisher - the priest.
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A wretched woman is more unfortunate than a wretched man.
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Marius and Cosette did not ask where this would lead them. They looked at themselves as arrived. It is a strange pretension for men to ask that love should lead them somewhere.
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What is fright by night is curiosity by day.
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Those who always pray are necessary to those who never pray.
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Right is right only when entire.
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Progress is the stride of God.
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The true artist can only labor con amore.
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Oh! Everything I loved!
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Science is continually correcting what it has said. Fertile corrections... science is a ladder... poetry is a winged flight... An artistic masterpiece exists for all time... Dante does not efface Homer.
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When I speak to you about myself, I am speaking to you about yourself. How is it you don't see that?
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If a man has his throat cut in Paris, it's a murder. If 50,000 people are murdered in the east, it is a question.
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Art needs no spur beyond itself.
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The most terrible of motives and the most unanswerable of responses: Because.
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There is no distress so complete but that even in the most critical moments the inexplicable sunrise of hope is seen in its depths.
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What I feel for you seems less of earth and more of a cloudless heaven.
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There is always more misery among the lower classes than there is humanity in the higher.
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Does there exist an Infinity outside ourselves? Is that infinity One, immanent and permanent, necessarily having substance, since He is infinite and if He lacked matter He would be limited, necessarily possessing intelligence since He is infinite and, lacking intelligence, He would be in that sense finite. Does this Infinity inspire in us the idea of essense, while to ourselves we can only attribute the idea of existence? In order words, is He not the whole of which we are but the part?
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She was a lovely blonde, with fine teeth. She had gold and pearls for her dowry; but her gold was on her head, and her pearls were in her mouth.
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The spirit of God, like the sun, always gives all its light at once. The spirit of man resembles the pale moon, which has its phases, its absences and its returns, its lucidity and its spots, its fullness and its disappearance, which borrows all its light from the rays of the sun, and which still dares to intercept them on occasion.
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Loving is almost a substitute for thinking. Love is a burning forgetfulness of all other things. How shall we ask passion to be logical?