A Goal Without A Pan Is Just

Sitting In The Flickering Light Of The Candles On This Kerchief Of Sand, On This Village Square, We Waited In The Night. We Were Waiting For The Rescuing Dawn - Or For The Moors. Something, I Know Not What, Lent This Night A Savor Of Christmas. We Told Stories, We Joked, We Sang Songs. In The Air There Was That Slight Fever That Reigns Over A Gaily Prepared Feast. And Yet We Were Infinitely Poor. Wind, Sand, And Stars. The Austerity Of Trappists. But On This Badly Lighted Cloth, A Handful Of Men Who Possessed Nothing In The World But Their Memories Were Sharing Invisible Riches.

And The Little Prince Broke Into A Lovely Peal Of Laughter, Which Irritated Me Very Much. I Like My Misfortunes To Be Taken Seriously.

It Is The Duty Of The Ship's Captain To Make Port, Cost What It May.

It Is Not A Question Of Living Dangerously. That Formula Is Too Arrogant, Too Presumptuous. I Don't Care Much For Bull-fighters. It's Not The Danger I Love. I Know What I Love. It Is Life Itself.

What He Had Yearned To Embrace Was Not The Flesh But A Down Spirit, A Spark, The Impalpable Angel That Inhabits The Flesh.