The Count of Monte Cristo

by Alexandre Dumas

to a happy man, a prayer is a monotonous composition, void of meaning, until the day when suffering deciphers the sublime language through which the poor victim addresses God.

‘But Valentine, why despair, why always paint the future in such sombre hues?’ Maximilien asked. ‘Because, my friend, I judge it by the past.’

He was a corpse with living eyes and, at times, nothing could be more terrifying than this marble face out of which anger burned or joy shone.

When one lives among madmen, one should train as a maniac.

Truly generous men are always ready to feel compassion when their enemy’s misfortune exceeds the bounds of their hatred.

For hearts which have long suffered, happiness is like dew on soil parched by the sun: both heart and earth absorb this beneficial rain as it falls on them, and nothing appears on the surface.