Book: Les Miserables. Page 3

The great debt of the modern thinker is to listen to the heart and lungs of civilization.

If you are the one who is called a happy man? Well, then - you're sad every day. Each day has its own great grief or its little care. Yesterday you were trembling for the health of those who are dear to you, now fear for their own, tomorrow you are concerned about money matters, the next day slander of the slanderer, after that - the misfortune of a friend; then bad weather, then something broken or lost thing, then the joy that you have to pay with remorse and pain in the spine and, at other times and the situation of public Affairs. All this, apart from heart troubles. And so on, ad infinitum. One cloud is dissipated, another just changes shape. A hundred days there is hardly one full of unalloyed joy and sun. And because you belong to a small number of those who possess happiness! As for other people, the night, the gloomy night over them.

Like a sad soul, when she grieved the love!

"It really created people" - not once he said, without a trace, however, of bitterness. In the salons allowed to appear strongly tainted, but not tainted boots. You can count on a warm welcome only under the condition of perfect purity - what would you think? Conscience? No, boots!

He didn't understand how people can hate each other because of this "stuff", like the Charter, democracy, legitimacy, monarchy, Republic, etc., when there are so many all sorts of mosses, herbs and shrubs, which can be admired, and such a lot of all kinds of books, not only in folio, but one thirty-second share, that you can scroll.

If you want to understand what Revolution is, call it Progress; if you want to understand what Progress is, call it Tomorrow.

While around was a massacre in the center of the attacked Piper, who was sitting on the drum and kept complete peace of mind, lowering melancholy eyes, full of reflections of their native lakes and forests, played songs of the mountaineers. The Scots have died thinking of Ben Lothian, like the Greeks, vspominaem about Argos. A cuirassier's sabre, cut the bagpipes along with held her hand, forced stop the song by killing the singer.

Beware of the women! Woe to those who trust in her volatile heart! The woman is shrewd and conniving. She hates the serpent from professional jealousy. The snake is her competitor.

Drinking of speech and love speech! Both are very elusive: the love of the speech is clouds, table - smoke.

Can human nature be radically altered, to the ground? Can a person whom God created good, become evil through the fault of another person? Can the soul under the influence of fate to be reborn and become evil if the fate of man was evil? Can the heart under the burden of inescapable grief become bad and ugly, ill with an incurable illness, like a curved vertebral column beneath too low, oppressive vault?

What more can one want? A garden for walks and all the infinity of dreams. At his feet - something you can cultivate and gather; above his head - something that can be pondered and explored. Some flowers on earth and all the stars in the sky.

The little girl without a doll is almost as unhappy and just as inconceivable as a woman without children.

Of all God created the human heart to the greatest extent emits light, but, alas, it also exudes the greatest darkness.

The elderly need love, like the sun she warms.