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She might have melted a heart of stone, but nothing can melt a heart of wood.

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
Might
Nothing
Heart
Melted
Melt
Wood
Stone
Woods
Stones

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When grace combines with wrinkles, it is admirable. There is an indescribable light of dawn about intensely happy old age. . . . The young person is handsome, but the old, superb.
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One believes others will do what he will do to himself.
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Winter is on my head, but eternal spring is in my heart.
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Man's greatest actions are performed in minor struggles. Life, misfortune, isolation, abandonment and poverty are battlefields which have their heroes - obscure heroes who are at times greater than illustrious heroes.
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Dear God! how beauty varies in nature and art.
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The production of souls is the secret of unfathomable depth.
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Popularity? It's glory's small change.
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The future has many names: For the weak, it means the unattainable. For the fearful, it means the unknown. For the courageous, it means opportunity.
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The world of sleep has an existence of its own.
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Night and the day, when united, Bring forth the beautiful light.
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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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Not seeing people allows you to think of them as perfect in all kinds of ways.
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A thousand men enslaved fear one beast free.
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Our mind is enriched by what we receive, our heart by what we give.
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He had not yet lived long enough to have discovered that nothing is more close at hand then the impossible, and that what must be looked for is always the unforeseen.
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Music is the vapor of art. It is to poetry what reverie is to thought, what fluid is to solid, what the ocean of clouds is to the ocean of waves.
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When liberty returns, I will return.
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Strange to say, the luminous world is the invisible world the luminous world is that which we do not see. Our eyes of flesh see only night.
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What's our baggage? Only vows, Happiness, and all our care, And the flower that sweetly shows Nestling lightly in your hair.
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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?
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