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At the moment when her eyes closed, when all feeling vanished in her, she thought that she felt a touch of fire imprinted on her lips, a kiss more burning than the red-hot iron of the executioner.

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
Kiss
Feeling
Hot
Eyes
Burning
Imprinted
Eye
Red
Executioner
Moment
Kissing
Executioners
Felt
Lips
Vanished
Feelings
Touch
Closed
Moments
Iron
Thought
Fire

More quotes by Victor Hugo

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Conscience is God present in man.
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The convent, which belongs to the West as it does to the East, to antiquity as it does to the present time, to Buddhism and Muhammadanism as it does to Christianity, is one of the optical devices whereby man gains a glimpse of infinity.
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His judgement demonstrates that one can be a genius and understand nothing of an art that is not one's own.
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Wherever the Turkish hoof trods, no grass grows.
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Change your opinions, keep to your principles change your leaves, keep intact your roots.
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For sight is woman-like and shuns the old.
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We are given up to those gods, those monsters, those giants, — our thoughts.
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There is will in the thought, there is none in the dream. The dream, which is completely spontaneous, takes and keeps, even in the gigantic and the ideal, the form of our mind. Nothing springs more directly and more sincerely from the very bottom of our souls than our unreflected and indefinite aspirations towards the splendours of destiny.
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To learn to read is to light a fire.
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As with stomachs, we should pity minds that do not eat.
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A fixed idea ends in madness or heroism.
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Primitive times are lyrical, ancient times epical, modern times dramatic. The ode sings of eternity, the epic imparts solemnity tohistory, the drama depicts life. The characteristic of the first poetry is ingeniousness, of the second, simplicity, of the third, truth.
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A tempest ceases, a cyclone passes over, a wind dies down, a broken mast can be replaced, a leak can be stopped, a fire extinguished, but what will become of this enormous brute of bronze?
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The tomb is not a blind alley: it is a thoroughfare. It closes on the twilight. It opens on the dawn.
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Love each other dearly always. There is scarcely anything else in the world but that: to love one another.
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Dying is nothing. What's terrible is not to live.
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Civil war? What does that mean? Is there any foreign war? Isn't every war fought between men, between brothers?
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The spirit of God, like the sun, always gives all its light at once. The spirit of man resembles the pale moon, which has its phases, its absences and its returns, its lucidity and its spots, its fullness and its disappearance, which borrows all its light from the rays of the sun, and which still dares to intercept them on occasion.
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Superstitions, bigotries, hypocrisies, prejudices, these phantoms, phantoms though they be, cling to life they have teeth and nails in their shadowy substance, and we must grapple with them individually and make war on them without truce for it is one of humanity's inevitabilities to be condemned to eternal struggle with phantoms.
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Dirt has been shrewdly termed misplaced material.
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