If nobody loved, the sun would go out.
It is often our best friends who throw us down.
Life is a theatre set in which there are but few practicable entrances.
The merciful precepts of Christ will at last suffuse the Code and it will glow with their radiance. Crime will be considered an illness with its own doctors to replace your judges and its hospitals to replace your prisons. Liberty shall be equated with health. Ointments and oil shall be applied to limbs that were once shackled and branded. Infirmities that once were scourged with anger shall now be bathed with love. The cross in place of the gallows: sublime and yet so simple.
Beauty is as useful as the useful. More so, perhaps. (Le beau est aussi utile que l'utile. Plus peut-etre.)
What happened between those two beings? Nothing. They were adoring one another.
Whom man kills, him God restoreth to life.
A war between Europeans is a civil war.
God made only water, but man made wine.
He loved books; books are cold but safe friends.
God will bless you,' said he, 'you are an angel since you take care of the flowers.' 'No,' she replied. 'I am the devil, but that's all the same to me.
To know how to distinguish the agitation arising from covetousness, from the agitation arising from principles, to fight the one and aid the other, in this lies the genius and the power of great revolutionary leaders.
What would be ugly in a garden constitutes beauty in a mountain.
The ox suffers, the cart complains.
Logic ignores the almost, just as the sun ignores the candle.
Work is the law of life, and to reject it as boredom is to submit to it as torment.
Every day has its great grief or its small anxiety. ... One cloud is dispelled, another forms. There is hardly one day in a hundred of real joy and bright sunshine.
There are no weeds, and no worthless men. There are only bad farmers.
In Shakespeare the birds sing, the bushes are clothed with green, hearts love, souls suffer, the cloud wanders, it is hot, it is cold, night falls, time passes, forests and multitudes speak, the vast eternal dream hovers over all. Sap and blood, all forms of the multiple reality, actions and ideas, man and humanity, the living and the life, solitudes, cities, religions, diamonds and pearls, dung-hills and charnelhouses, the ebb and flow of beings, the steps of comers and goers, all, all are on Shakespeare and in Shakespeare.
I would rather be the head of a fly than the tail of a lion.
And the dream that our mind had sketched in haste Shall others continue, but never complete. For none upon earth can achieve his scheme; The best as the worst are futile here: We wake at the self-same point of the dream, All is here begun, and finished elsewhere.
My tastes are aristocratic, my actions democratic.
To die for lack of love is horrible. The asphyxia of the soul.
A writer is a world trapped in a person.
When liberty returns, I will return.
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