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How did it happen that their lips came together? How does it happen that birds sing, that snow melts, that the rose unfolds, that the dawn whitens behind the stark shapes of trees on the quivering summit of the hill? A kiss, and all was said.

Victor Hugo

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Victor Hugo
Age: 83 †
Born: 1802
Born: February 26
Died: 1885
Died: May 22
Drawer
Essayist
Illustrator
Librettist
Memoirist
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Politician
Travel Writer
Writer
Besac
Victor Marie Hugo
Victor-Marie Hugo
Victor Marie
Comte Hugo
Happens
Bird
Trees
Summit
Doe
Sex
Snow
Valentine
Together
Flower
Romance
Hill
Love
Behinds
Kissing
Birds
Quivering
Life
Behind
Lips
Hills
Melts
Tree
Rose
Dawn
Unfolds
Happen
Sing
Kiss
Starks
Came
Shapes
Romantic
Stark

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At least you are mine! Soon – in a few months, perhaps, my angel will sleep in my arms, will awaken in my arms, will live there. All your thought at all moments, all your looks will be for me all my thought, all my moments, all my looks will be for you!
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Close by the Rights of Man, at the least set beside them, are the Rights of the Spirit.
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The straight line, a respectable optical illusion which ruins many a man.
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In the relations of man with the animals, with the flowers, with all the objects of creation, there is a whole great ethic, scarcely perceived as yet, which will at length break through into the light, and which will be the corollary and the complement to human ethics.
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Nothing can be sadder or more profound than to see a thousand things for the first and last time.
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A criminal remains a criminal whether he uses a convict's suit or a monarch's crown.
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Thought is the labor of the intellect, reverie is its pleasure.
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Give to a being the useless, and deprive him of the needful, and you have the gamin.
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We see past time in a telescope and present time in a microscope. Hence the apparent enormities of the present.
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[T]he small is great, the great is small all is in equilibrium in necessity.
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The owl goes not into the nest of the lark.
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A bit of mould is a pleiad of flowers a nebula is an ant-hill of stars.
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We say and exclaim within ourselves without breaking silence, in a tumult where everything speaks except our mouths. The realities of the soul are none the less real for being invisible and impalpable.
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The aim of art is almost divine: to bring to life again if it is writing history, to create if it is writing poetry.
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What I feel for you seems less of earth and more of a cloudless heaven.
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Let us say it now: to be blind and to be loved, is indeed, upon this earth where nothing is complete, one of the most strangely exquisite forms of happiness.
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To love or have loved, that is enough. Ask nothing further. There is no other pearl to be found in the dark folds of life.
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The soul has greater need of the ideal than of the real
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Life's greatest happiness is to be convinced we are loved.
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The transept belfry and the two towers were to him three great cages, the birds in which, taught by him, would sing for him alone. Yet it was these same bells which had made him deaf but mothers are often fondest of the child who has made them suffer most.
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