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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
Wood
Stone
Woods
Stones
Might
Nothing
Heart
Melted
Melt

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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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One cannot be a good historian of the outward, visible world without giving some thought to the hidden, private life of ordinary people and on the other hand one cannot be a good historian of this inner life without taking into account outward events where these are relevant.
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But secondly you say 'society must exact vengeance, and society must punish'. Wrong on both counts. Vengeance comes from the individual and punishment from God.
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He reached for his pocket, and found there, only reality
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A doctor’s door should never be closed, a priest's door should always be open.
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He who opens a school door, closes a prison.
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For, to make deserts, God, who rules mankind, Begins with kings, and ends the work by wind.
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If the soul is left in darkness, sins will be committed. The guilty one is not he who commits the sin, but the one who causes the darkness.
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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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The sunshine was delightful, the foliage gently astir, more from the activity of birds than from the breeze. One gallant little bird, doubtless lovelorn, was singing his heart out at the top of a tall tree.
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He had, they said, tasted in succession all the apples of the tree of knowledge, and, whether from hunger or disgust, had ended by tasting the forbidden fruit.
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Oh! Everything I loved!
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Our life dreams the Utopia. Our death achieves the Ideal.
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Love is a portion of the soul itself, and it is of the same nature as the celestial breathing of the atmosphere of paradise.
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Emotion is always new.
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I'd rather be hissed at for a good verse, than applauded for a bad one.
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The word is the Verb, and the Verb is God.
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During a wise man's whole life, his destiny holds his philosophy in a state of siege.
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Ma vie est une énigme dont ton nom est le mot. (My life is an enigma, of which your name is the word.)
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The soul has greater need of the ideal than of the real
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