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Love resembles a tree: it bends under its own weight, deeply rooted in our being and sometimes turns green in the ruins of a heart.

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
Love
Ruins
Deeply
Green
Weight
Tree
Turns
Bends
Sometimes
Resembles
Heart
Rooted

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There have been in this century only one great man and one great thing: Napoleon and liberty. For want of the great man, let us have the great thing.
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We say that slavery has vanished from European civilization, but this is not true. Slavery still exists, but now it applies only to women and its name is prostitution.
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That men saw his mask, but the bishop saw his face. That men saw his life, but the bishop saw his conscience.
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A wedding is not house-keeping.
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Paris is a sum total. Paris is the ceiling of the human race. All this prodigious city is an epitome of dead and living manners and customs. He who sees Paris, seems to see all history through with the sky and constellations in the intervals.
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What a grand thing, to be loved! What a grander thing still, to love!
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What is the cat? he exclaimed. It is a corrective. God, having made the mouse, said, 'I've made a blunder.' And he made the cat. The cat is the erratum of the mouse. The mouse, plus the cat, Is the revised and corrected proof of creation.
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The most beautiful of altars, he said, is the soul of an unhappy creature consoled and thankfing God.
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Marius and Cosette were in the dark in regard to each other. They did not speak, they did not bow, they were not acquainted they saw each other and, like the stars in the sky separated by millions of leagues, they lived by gazing upon each other.
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He loved books books are cold but safe friends.
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He never went out without a book under his arm, and he often came back with two.
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These are dark radiances. They have no suspicion that they are to be pitied. Certainly they are so. He who does not weep does not see. They are to be admired and pitied, as one would both pity and admire a being at once night and day, without eyes beneath his lashes but with a star on his brow.
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Symmetry is tedious, and tedium is the very basis of mourning. Despair yawns.
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Those who live are those who fight.
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If God had intended that man should go backward, he would have given him eyes in the back of his head.
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O darkness, the sky is a gloomy precinct Whose door you close, and whose key the soul owns And night divides itself in half, being diabolical and holy, Between Ilis, the black angel, and Christ, the starry Human Being.
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Here we stop. Upon the threshold of wedding nights stands an angel smiling, his finger on his lip.
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I love all men who think, even those who think otherwise than myself.
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Without at all invalidating what we have just said, we believe that a perpetual remembrance of the tomb is proper for the living. On this point, the priest and the philosopher agree: We must die.
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Reality in strong doses frightens.
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