The Little Prince



I read "The Little Prince" by Antoine de Saint-Exupery as the official literature text many years back in my pubescent years as a Nanyang Girl. Back then, I remember being vaguely fascinated by the perspectives that the little Prince had. I remember the illogical storyline. I remember being amazed at how someone could write something so creative, so out of the world and yet.. so familiar to the society we live in.

Today, as I was reading it.
It all felt so different.

Back then, it was pure fascination and amazement.
Today it was, reflection.

Am I the adult who was once a child, or am I the Little Prince?
Pure with emotions and quick with questions?

' If someone loves a flower, of which there is only one example among all the millions and millions of stars, that is enough to make him happy when he looks up at the night sky.

He says to himself: "Somewhere out there is my flower." But if a sheep eats the flower, it's as though all the stars have suddenly gone out! But I suppose that, too, is of no importance! '

He could not say any more. His words were choked by sobbing.

Night had fallen. I had let my tools drop to the ground. I no longer cared a fig for my hammer, or my bolt, or about thirst, or about dying. On one star, one planet, this planet, there was a little prince in need of consoling! I took him in my arms. I cradled him. I told him: "the flower you love is not in danger...I'll draw a muzzle for your sheep...I'll draw you a shield to put round your flower...I'll..."

I did not really know what to say. I felt like a blundering idiot.

I did not know how to reach him, where to catch up with him.

It is such a secret, the land of tears.

I read this portion. And I teared. There was a struggle within. At the same time, I was both me, and the little prince. Cradling and being cradled at the same time. Understood, and misunderstood at the same time. Serious, and innocent all at the same time. Passionate, and misguided all at the same time.

And my heart ached for myself. And my heart rejoiced for myself.

The little prince went off to look at the roses again.

'You are nothing like my rose,' he told them. 'As yet you are nothing at all. Nobody has tamed you, and you have tamed nobody. You are as my fox used to be. He was just like a hundred thousand other foxes. But i made him my friend, and now he is unique in the world.'

And the roses felt very uncomfortable.

'You are beautiful, but you are empty,' he went on.
'One could not die for you.

Of course, an ordinary passerby would think my rose looked just like you.

But in herself she matters more than all of you together, since it is she that I watered; since it is she that I placed under the glass dome; since it is she that I sheltered with the screen; since it is she whose caterpillars I killed (except the two or three we saved up to become butterflies.).

Since it is she that I listened to, when she complained, or boasted,
or when she was simply being silent.

Since it is she who is my rose.'

And he went back to the fox.