Adversity Makes Men, And Prosperity Makes Monsters.

My Day's Work Will Begin Again The Next Morning. The Tomb Is Not A Blind Alley.

M. Myriel Had To Undergo The Fate Of Every Newcomer In A Little Town, Where There Are Many Mouths Which Talk, And Very Few Heads Which Think.

The Soul Does Not Give Itself Up To Despair Until It Has Exhausted All Illusions.

The Ideal And The Beautiful Are Identical; The Ideal Corresponds To The Idea, And Beauty To Form; Hence Idea And Substance Are Cognate.

The Wind Of Revolutions Is Not Tractable.