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I am an honest girl, M. le Vicomte de Chagny, and I don't lock myself up in my dressing-room with men's voices.

Gaston Leroux

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Gaston Leroux
Age: 59 †
Born: 1868
Born: May 6
Died: 1927
Died: May 6
Journalist
Novelist
Playwright
Screenwriter
Writer
Paris
France
Gaston Louis Alfred Leroux
Room
Rooms
Honest
Voice
Lock
Girl
Dressings
Men
Dressing
Locks
Voices

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If I am the phantom, it is because man's hatred has made me so. If I am to be saved it is because your love redeems me.
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He had a heart that could have held the entire empire of the world and, in the end, he had to content himself with a cellar.
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Everyone dies. I just choose the time and place for some of them!
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When a woman has seen me, as you have, she belongs to me. She loves me forever.
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why do you condemn a man whom you have never met, whom no one knows and about whom even you yourself know nothing?
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She's singing to-night to bring the chandelier down!
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There are times where excessive innocence seems so monstrous that it becomes hateful.
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A ghost who, on the same evening, carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full!
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He stared dully at the desolate, cold road and the pale, dead night. Nothing was colder or more dead than his heart. He had loved an angel and now he despised a woman.
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None will ever be a true Parisian who has not learned to wear a mask of gaiety over his sorrows and one of sadness, boredom, or indifference over his inward joy.
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Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Her hair was as golden as the sun's rays, and her soul as clear and blue as her eyes. She wheedled her mother, was kind to her doll, took great care of her frock and her red shoes and her fiddle, but loved most of all, when she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music.
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Are people so unhappy when they love? Yes, Christine, when they love and are not sure of being loved.
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In Paris, our lives are one masked ball.
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The opera ghost really existed
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The shadow had followed behind them, clinging to their steps and the two children little suspected its presence when they at last sat down, trustingly, under the mighty protection of Apollo, who, with a great bronze gesture, lifted his huge lyre to the heart of a crimson sky.
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An author really ought to have nothing but flowers in the room where he works.
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Persons visited by the angel quiver with a thrill unknown to the rest of mankind
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I am not really wicked. Love me, and you will see!
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All I wanted was to be loved for myself. (Erik)
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Tonight I gave you my soul, and I am dead. - Christine, from Gaston Leroux's: The Phantom of the Opera.
Gaston Leroux