The Poet of the Skies!
Antoine de Saint-Exupery, a name I will never be able to pronounce is most known for "The Little Prince". But in my mind I can only think of him as the adventurous pilot who flew mail over the Sahara Desert and who mysteriously disappeared over the Mediterranean.
"Wind, Sand and the Star" was given to me by my boyfriend right when we first met and I was going away, for two long love hungry weeks. This book was therefore loved to pieces as a substitute and it did not disappoint. It will forever be one of my favorites.
Let me bring out some of the wonderful words by this man of stunning courage, and share it with you.
You are not the dweller upon an errant planet and do not ask yourself questions to which there are no answers. You are a petty bourgeois of Toulouse. 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.
...and when night has fallen I, delivered, shall read my course in the stars.
True riches cannot be bought. One cannot buy the friendship of a Mermoz, of a companion to whom is bound forever by ordeals suffered in common. There is no buying the night flight with its hundred thousand stars, its serenity, its few hours of sovereignty. It is not money that can procure for us that new vision of the world won through hardship - those trees, flowers, women, those treasures made fresh by the dew and color of life which the dawn restores to us, this concert of little things that sustain us and constitute our compensation.
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.
Each man must look to himself to teach him the meaning of life. It is not something discovered: it is something moulded. These prison walls that this age of trade has built up round us, we can break down. We can still run free, call to our comrades, and marvel to hear once more, in response to our call, the pathetic chant of the human voice.
...all you think about is sleep. I would long for it; but then I would say to myself, 'If my wife still believes I am alive, she must believe that I am on my feet. The boys all think I am on my feet. They have faith in me. And I am a skunk if I don't go on.'
Oh, I could just go on and on and this is just the beginning of the book, you just need to pick it up and perhaps just cry by the beauty of it all. Am I getting a bit too passionate here?