If A Composer Suffers From Loss Of

The First Stars Tremble As If Shimmering In Green Water. Hours Must Pass Before Their Glimmer Hardens Into The Frozen Glitter Of Diamonds. I Shall Have A Long Wait Before I Witness The Soundless Frolic Of The Shooting Stars. In The Profound Darkness Of Certain Nights I Have Seen The Sky Streaked With So Many Trailing Sparks That It Seemed To Me A Great Gale Must Be Blowing Through The Outer Heavens.

"it's A Question Of Discipline," The Little Prince Told Me Later On. "when You've Finished Washing And Dressing Each Morning, You Must Tend Your Planet."

Of Course I’ll Hurt You. Of Course You’ll Hurt Me. Of Course We Will Hurt Each Other. But This Is The Very Condition Of Existence. To Become Spring, Means Accepting The Risk Of Winter. To Become Presence, Means Accepting The Risk Of Absence.

It Is The Savor Of Bread Broken With Comrades That Makes Us Accept The Values Of War.

The Job Has Its Grandeurs, Yes. There Is The Exultation Of Arriving Safely After A Storm, The Joy Of Gliding Down Out Of The Darkness Of Night Or Tempest Toward A Sun-drenched Alicante Or Santiago; There Is The Swelling Sense Of Returning To Repossess One's Place In Life, In The Miraculous Garden Of Earth, Where Are Trees And Women And, Down By The Harbor, Friendly Little Bars. When He Has Throttled His Engine And Is Banking Into The Airport, Leaving The Somber Cloud Masses Behind, What Pilot Does Not Break Into Song?