Victor Hugo
Victor Hugo
Victor Marie Hugo; 26 February 1802 – 22 May 1885) was a French poet, novelist, and dramatist of the Romantic movement. He is considered one of the greatest and best-known French writers. In France, Hugo's literary fame comes first from his poetry and then from his novels and his dramatic achievements. Among many volumes of poetry, Les Contemplations and La Légende des siècles stand particularly high in critical esteem. Outside France, his best-known works are the novels Les Misérables, 1862,...
NationalityFrench
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth26 February 1802
CityBesancon, France
CountryFrance
Man lives more by affirmation than by bread.
There are many lovely women, but no perfect ones.
The nearer I approach the end, the plainer I hear around me the immortal symphonies of the worlds which invite me. It is marvelous, yet simple.
When people look back at their childhood or youth, their wistfulness comes from the memory, not of what their lives had been in those years, but of what life had then promised to be. The expectation of some indefinable splendor, of the unusual, the exciting, the great is an attribute of youth and the process of aging is the process of that expectations' gradual extinction. One does not have to let it happen. But that fire dies for lack of fuel, under the gray weight of disappointments.
God secludes Himself; but the thinker listens at the door.
A thousand men enslaved fear one beast free.
The persistence of an all-absorbing idea is terrible.
Does not beauty confer a benefit upon us, even by the simple fact of being beautiful?
Love, thine is the future. Death, I use thee, but I hate thee. Citizens, there shall be in the future neither darkness nor thunderbolts; neither ferocious ignorance nor blood for blood.
Dark Error's other hidden side is truth.
Hypocrisy is nothing, in fact, but a horrible hopefulness.
Yes, instruction! Light! Light! Everything comes from light, and to everything it returns.
We are not loved by our friends for what we are; rather, we are loved in spite of what we are.
There are no trifles in the human story, no trifling leaves on the tree.