"Busco amigos. ¿Qué significa "domesticar"? — volvió a preguntar el principito. — Es una cosa ya olvidada — dijo el zorro — , significa "crear víncul… - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

"Busco amigos. ¿Qué significa "domesticar"? — volvió a preguntar el principito. — Es una cosa ya olvidada — dijo el zorro — , significa "crear vínculos... " — ¿Crear vínculos? — Efectivamente, verás — dijo el zorro — . Tú no eres para mí todavía más que un muchachito igual a otros cien mil muchachitos y no te necesito para nada. Tampoco tú tienes necesidad de mí y no soy para ti más que un zorro entre otros cien mil zorros semejantes. Pero si tú me domésticas, entonces tendremos necesidad el uno del otro. Tú serás para mí único en el mundo, yo seré para ti único en el mundo... — Comienzo a comprender — dijo el principito — . Hay una flor... creo que ella me ha domesticado..."

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About Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Antoine de Saint Exupéry (29 June 1900 – 31 July 1944) was a French writer, poet and aviator.

Biography information from Wikiquote

Also Known As

Alternative Names: Antoine de Saint-Exupery Antoine de St. Exupery Saint-Exupery Saint-Exupéry Antoine Marie Roger, Vicomte de Saint-Exupéry Antoine Jean-Baptiste Marie Roger de Saint-Exupéry
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And when your sorrow is comforted (time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me. You will always be my friend. You will want to laugh with me. And you will sometimes open your window, so, for that pleasure . . . And your friends will be properly astonished to see you laughing as you look up at the sky! Then you will say to them, 'Yes, the stars always make me laugh!' And they will think you are crazy. It will be a very shabby trick that I shall have played on you...

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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.

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