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There is suffering in the light in excess it burns. Flame is hostile to the wing. To burn and yet to fly, this is the miracle of genius.

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
Burn
Flames
Wings
Miracle
Burns
Genius
Flame
Suffering
Wing
Light
Hostile
Excess

More quotes by Victor Hugo

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I believe, sir, in all the progress. Air navigation is the result of the oceanic navigation: from water the human has to pass in the air. Everywhere where creation will be breathable to him, the human will penetrate into the creation. Our only limit is life.
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A man trying to escape never thinks himself sufficiently concealed.
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Daring is the price of progress. All splendid conquests are the prize of boldness, more or less.
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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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A phenomenon often seen. A sceptic adhering to a believer that is as simple as the law of the complementary colours. What we lack attracts us. Nobody loves the light like the blind man.
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The clouds, - the only birds that never sleep.
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One drop of wine is enough to redden a whole glass of water.
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Nothing is more true, more real, than the primeval magnetic disturbances that two souls may communicate to one another, through the tiny sparks of a moment's glance.
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A fall from such a height is rarely straight downwards.
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As the purse is emptied, the heart is filled.
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No one knows like a woman how to say things which are at once gentle and deep.
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Every bird which flies has the thread of the infinite in its claw.
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Good actions are the invisible hinges on the doors of heaven.
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Separated lovers cheat absence by a thousand fancies which have their own reality. They are prevented from seeing one another and they cannot write nevertheless they find countless mysterious ways of corresponding, by sending each other the song of birds, the scent of flowers, the laughter of children.
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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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Enthusiasm is the fever of reason.
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Puns are the droppings of soaring wits.
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The hand which moves over the dial moves also among souls.
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If we must suffer, let us suffer nobly.
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Dear God! how beauty varies in nature and art. In a woman the flesh must be like marble in a statue the marble must be like flesh.
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