একদিন আমি তেতাল্লিশ বার সূর্য ডুবতে দেখলাম।' একটু পরে সে আরও বলল — 'জানো, লোকেদের যখন খুব মন খারাপ থাকে তখন সূর্যডোবা দেখতে ভাল লাগে।'
'তেতাল্লিশবারের দিন তাহলে তোমার খুব মন খারাপ ছিল?' কোন জবাবই কিন্তু দিল না খুদে রাজকুমার।

Μόνο με την καρδιά βλέπεις καλά. Την ουσία τα μάτια δεν την βλέπουν. Οι άνθρωποι έχουν ξεχάσει αυτη την αλήθεια, εσύ όμως δεν πρέπει να την ξεχάσεις. Θα είσαι υπεύθηνος για πάντα για οτι έχεις εξημερώσει....

Moi qui éprouve, comme chacun, le besoin d’être reconnu, je me sens pur en toi et vais à toi. J’ai besoin d’aller là où je suis pur. Ce ne sont point mes formules ni mes démarches qui t’ont jamais instruit sur qui je suis. C’est l’acceptation de qui je suis qui t’a fait, au besoin, indulgent à ces démarches comme à ces formules. Je te sais gré de me recevoir tel que me voici. Qu’ai-je à faire d’un ami qui me juge ? Si j’accueille un ami à ma table, je le prie de s’asseoir, s’il boite, et ne lui demande pas de danser

Men can, of course, be stirred into life by being dressed up in uniforms and made to blare out chants of war. It must be confessed that this is one way for men to break bread with comrades and to find what they are seeking, which is a sense of something universal, of self-fulfillment. But of this bread men die.

"What moves me so deeply, about this little prince who is sleeping here, is his loyalty to a flower — the image of a rose that shines through his whole being like the flame of a lamp, even when he is asleep..." And I felt him to be more fragile still. I felt the need of protecting him, as if he himself were a flame that might be extinguished by a little puff of wind...

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"All men have the stars," he answered, "but they are not the same things for different people. For some, who are travelers, the stars are guides. For others they are no more than little lights in the sky. For others, who are scholars, they are problems. For my businessman they were wealth. But all these stars are silent. You — you alone — will have the stars as no one else has them — "

For millions of years flowers have been producing thorns. For millions of years sheep have been eating them all the same. And it's not serious, trying to understand why flowers go to such trouble to produce thorns that are good for nothing? It's not important, the war between the sheep and the flowers? It's no more serious and more important than the numbers that fat red gentleman is adding up? Suppose I happen to know a unique flower, one that exists nowhere in the world except on my planet, one that a little sheep can wipe out in a single bite one morning, just like that, without even realizing what he'd doing - that isn't important? If someone loves a flower of which just one example exists among all the millions and millions of stars, that's enough to make him happy when he looks at the stars. He tells himself 'My flower's up there somewhere...' But if the sheep eats the flower, then for him it's as if, suddenly, all the stars went out. And that isn't important?

Everyone seems inspired by some religion that promises fulfillment. Within the clashing words we are all expressing the same impulses. We are divided over methods which are the fruit of our reasoning, but not over our goals, which are identical.