Encore un fusillé hier. L'assassinat est une plaie. On panse le meurtre par le meurtre.
L'Angleterre prit l'aigle et l'Autriche l'aiglon.
Le calembour est la fiente de l'esprit qui vole.
[…] Le bonheur, amie, est chose grave. Il veut des cœurs de bronze et lentement s'y grave.
[…] Dieu bénit l'homme, Non pour avoir trouvé, mais pour avoir cherché.
La conscience de l'homme c'est la pensée de Dieu.
L'idée, trempée dans le vers, prend soudain quelque chose de plus incisif et de plus éclatant. C'est le fer qui devient acier.
© 2026 My French LLC
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