A man has many parts, he is virtually everything, and you are free to select in him that part which pleases you.

He sat down. I sat down next to him. And after a silence, he spoke again. 'The stars are beautiful because of a flower you don't see...' I answered, 'Yes, of course.

The soldier's body becomes a stock of accessories that are not his property.

How is it possible for one to own the stars?" "To whom do they belong?" the businessman retorted, peevishly. "I don't know. To nobody.

One is a member of a country, a profession, a civilization, a religion. One is not just a man.

One only really sees with the heart.

You are beautiful, but you are empty,” he went on. “One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you--the rose that belongs to me.