Gaston Leroux

As became a real ghost, he made no noise in walking.

Events are so quickly forgotten in Paris.

After all, who had seen him? You meet so many men in dress-clothes at the Opera who are not ghosts.

The more we think we know something, the further we are from knowing anything!

He took his heart in his two hands to make it stop.

Here, my young friend, the man is nothing, the paper everything.

At one and the same time, he had learned what love meant, and hatred.

“When you can’t arrest the real murderer,” he said with an air of supreme irony, “you can always indulge in the luxury of discovering accomplices.”

“Reputations are easily obtained,” replied Moncharmin. “Haven’t I a reputation for knowing all about music? And I don’t know one key from another.”

It might have passed for a tomb, a vast mausoleum in the midst of a thick forest.

As he seems to be everywhere, I can’t have people telling me that they see him nowhere.

“Because, if it had not been blue with red stripes, it would not have been found at all.”

Nobody could see the ghost in his box, but everybody could hear him.

We have to take hold of our reason by the right end.

We may as well be dead as ridiculous!

I do not like journalists. They are a class of writers to be avoided as the pest.

“She is singing tonight to bring the chandelier down!”

“One does not ordinarily have a safe and leave it open!”

They played at hearts as other children might play at ball; only, as it was really their two hearts that they flung to and fro, they had to be very, very handy to catch them, each time, without hurting them.

For it is fighting with nothing, when you have only an idea to fight with.