Book: Notre Dame Cathedral. Page 1

He was clinging to life. Perhaps he really saw hell.

- How do you have to be to please you?
- You have to be a man.

You can't just exist - it is necessary to maintain its existence.

And it is known that when girls laugh a lot, so prepare yourself streams of tears in the future. Handsome teeth ruin handsome eyes.

My child, torture me with one hand, but caress the other!

How cruel the transition from student dreams to life.

Quasimodo stopped under the arch of the main portal. His large feet seemed as firmly rooted in the stone tiles of the floor as the heavy Romanesque pillars. Its huge shaggy head was deeply gone into the shoulders, like a lion head, a long mane which is also not visible neck. He kept flapping in the wind a girl hanging on his rough hands like white fabric, was kept as carefully as if he feared to break her or crush. It seemed that he felt that it was something fragile, delicate, precious, was not created to his hands. The minute he dared to touch her even breathing. And suddenly strongly pressed her to his angular bosom, as his property, as their treasure... <...> the Sight of the Cyclops, bowed to the girl, it was wrapped around her tenderness, sorrow and pity, then suddenly rose up, full of fire. And then the women laughed and wept, the crowd was in a frenzy of delight, for in these moments... Quasimodo was truly beautiful. He was beautiful, this orphan, a foundling, it's trash; he felt Grand and powerful, he looked in the face of this society, which expelled him, but in the Affairs of which he had so powerfully intervened; staring in the face of this human justice, whose snatched the booty, all these tigers who just had to chatter, the bailiffs, judges and executioners, all that Royal power which he, miserable, broke with the help of Almighty God.

The sound of the human voice is music to the human ear.

Suffering is always accompanied by pleasure.

Enough some one unhappy thoughts, to make men impotent and insane.

A girl who loves to laugh, on the way to tears.

Opening your heart to the winds, following only one law - the instincts of nature, allowing passions to spill on the beds of their inclinations, Jean did not understand, could not imagine with what rage ferments and boils the sea of human passions, when he has nowhere to flow, how it overflows, how swells like torn from the banks, how is eroding heart is like burst into the inner sobs in silent convulsive efforts, until finally burst its dam and will not unfold his bed.

Continuous rumble usually standing over Paris during the day is the dialect of the city, the night his breath.

You will have to choose between a tramp and a rope.