Mothers Arms Are Made Of

These Are True Felicities. No Joy Beyond These Joys. Love Is The Only Ecstasy, Everything Else Weeps

We Are On The Side Of Religion As Opposed To Religions, And We Are Among Those Who Believe In The Wretched Inadequacy Of Sermons And The Sublimity Of Prayer.

Marius Was Of The Temperament That Sinks Into Grief And Remains There; Cosette Was Of The Sort That Plunges In And Comes Out Again.

Sometimes He Used A Spade In His Garden, And Sometimes He Read And Wrote. He Had But One Name For These Two Kinds Of Labor; He Called Them Gardening. ‘the Spirit Is A Garden,’ Said He

No Army Can Withstand The Strength Of An Idea Whose Time Has Come.