Quotes from books
I should never have listened to her. One should never listen to the flowers. One should simply look at them and breathe their fragrance.
I am very fond of sunsets. Come, let us go look at a sunset...
When you've finished getting yourself ready in the morning, you must go get the planet ready.
If somebody wants a sheep, that is a proof that one exists.
Remember where you came from, where you're going, and why you created this mess you got yourself into in the first place.
Your conscience is the measure of the honesty of your selfishness.
Listen to it carefully.
I do not exist to impress the world. I exist to live my life in a way that will make me happy.
I felt like a moth in a chandelier — all at once there were lots of pretty choices, but I wasn't quite sure where to fly.
That's what learning is, after all; not whether we lose the game, but how we lose and how we've changed because of it and what we take away from it that we never had before, to apply to other games. Losing, in a curious way, is winning.
Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.
What makes the desert beautiful, is that somewhere it hides a well.
To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world...
All grown-ups were once children... but only few of them remember it.
We were all at once terribly alone; and alone we must see it through.
But now, for the first time, I see you are a man like me. I thought of your hand-grenades, of your bayonet, of your rifle; now I see your wife and your face and our fellowship. Forgive me, comrade. We always see it too late. Why do they never tell us that you are poor devils like us, that your mothers are just as anxious as ours, and that we have the same fear of death, and the same dying and the same agony. Forgive me, comrade; how could you be my enemy?
I did not want to think so much about her. I wanted to take her as an unexpected, delightful gift, that had come and would go again — nothing more. I meant not to give room to the thought that it could ever be more. I knew too well that all love has the desire for eternity and that therein lies its eternal torment. Nothing lasts. Nothing.