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What was my body to me? A kind of flunkey in my service. Let but my anger wax hot, my love grow exalted, my hatred collect in me, and that boasted solidarity between me and my body was gone.

Antoine de Saint-Exupery

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Antoine de Saint-Exupery
Age: 44 †
Born: 1900
Born: June 29
Died: 1944
Died: July 31
Aircraft Pilot
Autobiographer
Essayist
Illustrator
Journalist
Novelist
Philosopher
Poet
Writer
Lyons
Antoine de Saint-Exupery
Antoine de St. Exupery
Saint-Exupery
Saint-Exupéry
Body
Solidarity
Kind
Hot
Love
Anger
Hatred
Service
Grow
Boasted
Grows
Exalted
Gone
Collect

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The strong are strengthened by reverses the trouble is that the true meaning of events scores next to nothing in the match we play with men. Appearances decide our gains or losses and the points are trumpery. And a mere semblance of defeat may hopelessly checkmate us.
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Aimer, ce n'est point nous regarder l'un l'autre, mais regarder ensemble dans la meme direction. English Translation: To love is not to look at each other, But to look together in the same direction.
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Intelligence is not creative judgment is not creative. If a sculptor is nothing but skill and mind, his hands will be without genius.
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What do we mean by setting a man free? You cannot free a man who dwells in a desert and is an unfeeling brute.
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To be a man is, precisely, to be responsible.
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There is no hope of joy except in human relations.
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We must not subject him who creates to the desires of the multitude. It is, rather, his creation that must become the multitude's desire.
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Sometimes we behave as though there was something more important than life. But what?
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The proof that the little prince existed is that he was charming, that he laughed, and that he was looking for a sheep. If anybody wants a sheep, that is a proof that he exists.
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One cannot build life from refrigerators, politics, credit statements and crossword puzzles. That is impossible. Nor can one exist for any length of time without poetry, without color, without love.
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The Beauty of the Mountain is hidden for all those who try to discover it from the top, supposing that, one way or an other, one can reach this place directly. The Beauty of the Mountain reveals only to those who climbed it.
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Once you are my friend, I am responsible for you.
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Peace dies when the framework is ripped apart. When there is no longer a place that is yours in the world. When you know no longer where your friend is to be found.
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It is the missed opportunity that counts, and in a love that vainly yearns from behind prison bars you have perchance the love supreme.
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Men have forgotten this truth, said the fox. But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.
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War is not an adventure. It is a disease. It is like typhus.
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No individual is isolated. He who is sad, saddens others.
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