French writer and aviator (1900–1944)
Antoine de Saint Exupéry (29 June 1900 – 31 July 1944) was a French writer, poet and aviator.
From: Wikiquote (CC BY-SA 4.0)
Alternative Names:
Antoine de Saint-Exupery
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Antoine de St. Exupery
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Saint-Exupery
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Saint-Exupéry
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Antoine Marie Roger, Vicomte de Saint-Exupéry
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Antoine Jean-Baptiste Marie Roger de Saint-Exupéry
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"So the little prince tamed the fox. And when the hour of his departure drew near — Ah," said the fox, "I shall cry."
It is your own fault," said the little prince. "I never wished you any sort of harm; but you wanted me to tame you . . ."
Yes, that is so," said the fox.
But now you are going to cry!" said the little prince.
Yes, that is so," said the fox.
Then it has done you no good at all!"
It has done me good," said the fox, "because of the color of the wheat fields."
This is, to me, the loveliest and saddest landscape in the world. It is the same as that on the preceding page, but I have drawn it again to impress it on your memory. It is here that the little prince appeared on Earth, and disappeared.
Look at it carefully so that you will be sure to recognise it in case you travel some day to the African desert. And, if you should come upon this spot, please do not hurry on. Wait for a time, exactly under the star. Then, if a little man appears who laughs, who has golden hair and who refuses to answer questions, you will know who he is. If this should happen, please comfort me. Send me word that he has come back.
Si ce que tu as trouvé est fait de matière pure, cela ne pourrira jamais. Et tu pourras y revenir un jour. Si ce n’est qu’un instant de lumière, comme l’explosion d’une étoile, alors tu ne retrouveras rien à ton retour. Mais tu auras vu une explosion de lumière. Et cela seul aura déjà valu la peine d’être vécu.
I looked about me. Luminous points glowed in the darkness. Cigarettes punctuated the humble meditations of worn old clerks. I heard them talking to one another in murmurs and whispers. They talked about illness, money, shabby domestic cares. And suddenly I had a vision of the face of destiny. Old bureaucrat, my comrade, it is not you who are to blame. No one ever helped you to escape. You, like a termite, built your peace by blocking up with cement every chink and cranny through which the light might pierce. You rolled yourself up into a ball in your genteel security, in routine, in the stifling conventions of provincial life, raising a modest rampart against the winds and the tides and the stars. You have chosen not to be perturbed by great problems, having trouble enough to forget your own fate as a man. You are not the dweller upon an errant planet and do not ask yourself questions to which there are no answers. Nobody grasped you by the shoulder while there was still time. Now the clay of which you were shaped has dried and hardened, and naught in you will ever awaken the sleeping musician, the poet, the astronomer that possibly inhabited you in the beginning.