Quotes About Suffering

Des marchands de sang humain criaient a tue-tête : Qui veut des places ?. Une rage m'a pris contre ce peuple. J'ai eu envie de leur crier : Qui veut la mienne ?

It is possible to conceive of something even more terrible than a hell of suffering, and that is a hell of boredom.

It is the same with wretchedness as with everything else. It ends by becoming bearable.

The wretchedness of a child interests a mother, the wretchedness of a young man interests a young girl, the wretchedness of an old man interests no one.

Injustice had made her sulle, and misery had made her ugly.

What am I to do on this earth? The choice rests with me: suffer or enjoy. Whither will suffering lead me? To nothingness; but I shall have suffered. Whither will enjoyment lead me? To nothingness; but I will have enjoyed myself.

Shall we weep for all the innocent, all martyrs, all children, the lowly as well as the exalted? I agree to that. But in that case, as I have told you, we must go back further than '93, and our tears must begin before Louis XVII. I will weep with you over the children of kings, provided that you will weep with me over the children of the people.

The utmost extremity of degradation is the obscene merriment to which it gives rise.

He set out for Toulon. He arrived there, after a journey of twenty-seven days, on a cart, with a chain on his neck. At Toulon he was clothed in the red cassock. All that had constituted his life, even to his name, was effaced; he was no longer even Jean Valjean; he was number 24,601.

when I see humanity ripped apart and events patched up, and so many spots on the sun and so many holes in the moon, when I see so much misery everywhere, I suspect that God is not rich. The appearance exists, it is true, but I feel that he is hard up.

From suffering to suffering, he had gradually arrived at the conviction that life is a war; and that in this war he was the conquered.

long as the three great problems of the century—the degradation of man through pauperism, the corruption of woman through hunger, the crippling of children through lack of light—are unsolved;

weep for them all," the bishop said. "Equally," G——— exclaimed, "and if the balance tips, let it be on the side of the people: They have suffered longer.

The sores of the human race, those great sores which cover the globe, do not halt at the red or blue lines traced upon the map.

there is always more wretchedness below than there is brotherhood above

Reeking blood, overcrowded cemeteries, weeping mothers—these are formidable plaintiffs. When the earth is suffering from a surcharge, there are mysterious moanings from the deeps that the heavens hear. Napoleon had been impeached before the Infinite, and his fall was decreed. He annoyed God. Waterloo is not a battle; it is the changing face of the universe.

The transept belfry and the two towers were to him three great cages, the birds in which, taught by him, would sing for him alone. Yet it was these same bells which had made him deaf; but mothers are often fondest of the child who has made them suffer most.

Les miserables

Venti e nubi, turbini e folate, inutili stelle! Che fare? Disperato s'abbandona, poiché chi è stanco decide di morire e lascia fare, si lascia andare, cede, ed eccolo rotolato per sempre nelle mortali profondità dell'abisso vorace. Oh, implacabile cammino delle società umane! Perdita di uomini e d'anime per strada! Oceano in cui cade tutto ciò che la legge lascia cadere! Sinistra scomparsa del soccorso, morte morale!

Men had only touched him to bruise him. Every contact with them had been a blow. Never, since his infancy, since the days of his mother, of his sister, had he ever encountered a friendly word and a kindly glance. From suffering to suffering, he had gradually arrived at the conviction that life is a war; and that in this war he was the conquered. He had no other weapon than his hate. He resolved to whet it in the galleys and to bear it away with him when he departed.

Jean Valjean felt his heart melt within him with delight, at all these sparks of a tenderness so exclusive, so wholly satisfied with himself alone. The poor man trembled, inundated with angelic joy; he declared to himself ecstatically that this would last all their lives; he told himself that he really had not suffered sufficiently to merit so radiant a bliss, and he thanked God, in the depths of his soul, for having permitted him to be loved thus, he, a wretch, by that innocent being.

O mais belo altar – dizia – é a alma de um infeliz que agradece a Deus um benefício.

Monsieur to a convict is a glass of water to a man dying of thirst at sea. Ignominy thirsts for respect.

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