Antoine de Saint-Exupery
Antoine de Saint-Exupery
Antoine Marie Jean-Baptiste Roger, comte de Saint-Exupérywas a French writer, poet, aristocrat, journalist, and pioneering aviator. He became a laureate of several of France's highest literary awards and also won the U.S. National Book Award. He is best remembered for his novella The Little Princeand for his lyrical aviation writings, including Wind, Sand and Stars and Night Flight...
NationalityFrench
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth29 June 1900
CityLyon, France
CountryFrance
It is in the compelling zest of high adventure and of victory, and in creative action, that man finds his supreme joys.
A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral.
True happiness comes from the joy of deeds well done, the zest of creating things new.
Perhaps creativity is fumbling that dance step, or driving the chisel the wrong way into the stone.
What saves a man is to take a step. Then another step.
You are responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose.
A single event can awaken within us a stranger totally unknown to us. To live is to be slowly born.
A pile of rocks ceases to be a rock when somebody contemplates it with the idea of a cathedral in mind.
Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking outward together in the same direction.
Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking together in the same direction.
Loving is not just looking at each other, it's looking in the same direction.
Love is not just looking at each other, it's looking in the same direction.
Love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking together in the same direction.
On a day of burial there is no perspective -- for space itself is annihilated. Your dead friend is still a fragmentary being. The day you bury him is a day of chores and crowds, of hands false or true to be shaken, of the immediate cares of mourning. The dead friend will not really die until tomorrow, when silence is round you again. Then he will show himself complete, as he was -- to tear himself away, as he was, from the substantial you. Only then will you cry out because of him who is leaving and whom you cannot detain.