The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupery. Translated by Katherine Woods. 113/113.
The Little Prince is a wistful French classic of youthful imagination, which has moved many to tears and sighs and has always been one of my mother’s least favorite books in the entire world. For real—it makes her rear back in visceral dislike—TOO SENTIMENTAL—and turn aside for the closest available source of literary comfort. And this from someone who loves Anne of Green Gables with a true, good, and permanent love.
So I did that thing you sometimes do when your genius librarian of a parent hates a book, and you Do Not Read It. Owl likes it, however, and I like Owl enough to have gotten married together, and here it was on our shelf, so I picked it up.
Here is the truth—
—I am ashamed—
I did not care.
I do not care about the aviator narrator’s existential grief at being touched in his heart by an ephemeral flower of childish purity a la Blake’s Songs of Innocence. Owl asked me DO YOU THINK HE DIES DO YOU THINK HE DIES about the Prince, but it turns out that I don’t think he lives or dies because I do not believe in him at all.
I do believe in the power of imagination, in principle, and I agree wholeheartedly that it’s better to avid sitting at a desk feeling crabby for your whole life.
I also believe with my total conviction in the lamb that is technically just a drawing of a box which has been said to hold a lamb. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it’s because the narrator couldn’t see the lamb, and therefore grease it all up with his ugly crying.
In my defense, the narrator messing things up is totally canon. He messes up like FIVE DRAWINGS OF LAMBS and makes the fox’s ears too tall. The guy doesn’t know anything. IRL the Prince is probably great. Get your act together with your gardening, Prince, and always wear body armor when riding a space snake. I know that’s kind of adult-ish advice, but it will be so much better for your tender self.
take care, mon petit prince ;______;
put the narrator in a box