Whom Man Kills, Him God Restoreth To

There Are Souls Which, Crab-like, Crawl Continually Toward Darkness, Going Back In Life Rather Than Advancing In It, Using What Experience They Have To Increase Their Deformity, Growing Worse Without Ceasing, And Becoming Steeped More And More Thoroughly In An Intensifying Wickedness.

Liberation Is Not Deliverance.

Slowly He Took Out The Clothes In Which, Ten Years Beforem Cosette Had Left Montfermeil; First The Little Dress, Then The Black Scarf, Then The Great Heavy Child's Shoes Cosette Could Still Almost Have Worn, So Small Was Her Foot, Then The Vest Of Very Thich Fustian, Then The Knitted Petticoat, The The Apron With Pockets, Then The Wool Stockings.... Then His Venerable White Head Fell On The Bed, This Old Stoical Heart Broke, His Face Was Swallowed Up, So To Speak, In Cosette's Clothes, And Anybody Who Had Passed Along The Staircase At That Moment Would Have Heard Irrepressible Sobbing.

The Beautiful Has But One Type, The Ugly Has A Thousand.

Friendship Exists Outside Our Modern Economy Of Scarcity... It's Not About Apportioning Vanishing Resources Of Time And Energy. Friendship Is A Blessed Relic Of The Ancient Economy Of The Gift, And The Time Freely Given To People Dear To You Actually Creates Magical Abundance.