Demain, dès l'aube, à l'heure où blanchit la campagne, Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m'attends. […] Et quand j'arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe, Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.
De quelque mot profond tout homme est le disciple.
L'argot c'est le verbe devenu forçat.
La raison, c'est l'intelligence en exercice ; l'imagination c'est l'intelligence en érection.
La bonté d'une guerre se juge à la quantité de mal qu'elle fait.
Ni despotisme ni terrorisme. Nous voulons le progrès en pente douce.
Ô souvenirs ! printemps ! aurore !
© 2026 My French LLC
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