Hugo's been holding out on me

Victor Hugo that is.  I've just gotten into parts of the book that have lines so good they need to be read aloud.  When's the last time you read literature that was so beautiful you just needed to hear it?  I swear that's why I persist (yes, sometimes, it is persistence) through the classics.  They weave such an unbelievable, rich tapestry of characters, settings and plot lines. 

My character, Jean Valjean, just carried a wounded soldier - his daughter's beloved - through miles of sewer, waded neck-deep in sewage at times.  He finally arrived at a sewer grate - locked.  He almost succumbed to the hopelessness of his situation.  Impossible to go forward, no strength to go back.  He finally escaped (I'll spare the details).  When he, at last, emerged into the fresh air at sunset and set his burden on the beach, this was the entry:

For a few seconds Jean Valjean was irresistibly overcome by all this august and caressing serenity; there are such moments of forgetfulness; suffering refuses to harass the wretched; everything is eclipsed in thought; peace covers the dreamer like a night; and, under the expansive twilight, and in imitation of the sky which is lighting up, the soul becomes starry.

It just almost makes my chest ache, it's so good.