A Writer Is A World Trapped In

Daring Is The Price Of Progress. All Splendid Conquests Are The Prize Of Boldness, More Or Less.

Revolution Is The Larva Of Civilization.

Crime Is Redeemed By Remorse, But Not By A Blow Of The Axe Or Slipknot. Blood Has To Be Washed By Tears But Not By Blood.

Solitude Either Develops The Mental Power, Or Renders Men Dull And Vicious.

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.