The moment you realize that the only determining factor in your life is you is the moment you start living.

Like a handprint in cement
An indelible mark has been left
My identity has been bent
At the point where your fingers pressed.

Some people leave their marks
All over your identity;
Some leave beautiful art
And others graffiti obscenities.

You say 'I' and you are proud of this word. But greater than this- although you will not believe in it - is your body and its great intelligence, which does not say 'I' but performs 'I'.

You know these things as thoughts, but your thoughts are not your experiences, they are an echo and after-effect of your experiences: as when your room trembles whe na carriage goes past. I however am sitting in the carriage, and often I am the carriage itself.
Ina man who thinks like this, the dichotomy between thinking and feeling, intellect and passion, has really disappeared. He feels his thoughts. He can fall in love with an idea. An idea can make him ill.

The proof that the little prince existed is that he was charming, that he laughed, and that he was looking for a sheep. If anybody wants a sheep, that is a proof that he exists.

I mistrust all systematizers and avoid them. the will to a system is a lack of integrity.