by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
I’ve been putting off writing this review for the longest time because, well — hasn’t everyone read this book by now? At least once? What else is there to say about it?
That it’s charming (really charming, without being at all smarmy)? That it will disarm cynical readers? Make you cry if you let it? That it is a small book, you could read it all in one sitting, but it will stay with you long after you put it down? I’m pretty sure all these things have been said about The Little Prince many, many times.
That doesn’t make them any less true.
I had a stack of books to read on vacation (most, I will confess, are still unread) and a few books set aside to read to get to vacation. This was one of those. I needed a shot of whimsy and true emotion and questioning the absurdity of most grown ups, and this book delivered it. It’s the kind of thing I shouldn’t read once, but probably once every few months.
If you haven’t read it in awhile, do yourself a favor. You probably need to see the not-really-very-good sketches (except for the boa constrictor) and be reminded.
In the course of this life, I have had a great many encounters with a great many people who have been concerned with matters of consequence. I have lived a great deal among grown-ups. I have seen them intimately, close at hand. And that hasn’t much improved my opinion of them.