On July 31, 1944, the plane of French war pilot, writer, and thinker Antoine de Saint-Exupéry crashes into the Mediterranean Sea. Two months prior, in a letter to a close friend, he shares thoughts that today sound remarkably relevant.
The author of The Little Prince opens a window into the future and allows us to see the projection of his values and concerns in today's world.
Letter to Mrs. Françoise de Rose May 1944
Thank you, dear Yvonne, for many things. I cannot even say which ones (what matters is invisible…), but surely I have reason, since I want to thank you.
Actually, it's not quite like that. One does not thank a garden. I have always divided humanity into two parts. There are people who are gardens and people who are courtyards. The latter carry their courtyards with them, and they suffocate within their walls. You have to talk to them to make noise. Silence in a courtyard is oppressive.
But in gardens, you walk around. You don’t need to talk and you breathe. You feel comfortable. And pleasant surprises come to you on their own. You don't need to search for them. A butterfly, a beetle, a firefly appear. We know nothing about the civilization of fireflies. We can dream. The beetle seems to know where it’s going. It’s always in a hurry. It’s astonishing. And here, too, one can dream. Then comes the butterfly. When it lands on a big flower, you think it’s like a swaying terrace from the gardens of Babylon. Then you notice the first stars and fall silent.
No, I’m not thanking you at all. You are who you are. I simply want to walk around in your garden some more. I thought of something else. There are people who are highways and people who are paths. Highways people bore me. Their pavements and kilometer markers are dull to me. These people have a clearly defined goal. Profit, ambition. Along the paths, instead of kilometer markers, there are hazel bushes. You walk and crack hazelnuts. You’re just here to be here. And you walk to be here, not anywhere else. But you don’t expect anything from kilometer markers...
Yvonne, dear Yvonne, the people of our time are trapped. The telephone civilization is unbearable. True presence has been replaced with a caricature of presence. You move from one person to another, just like with a simple push of a button on a radio, you switch from Johann Sebastian Bach to "Come here, little chick!" One doesn’t concentrate on anything anymore; one is nowhere. I hate this dissolvable humanity. If I’m somewhere, it’s as if I’m there for eternity. When I sit on a bench, I want to sit there forever. On my bench, I have the right to five minutes of eternity.
You, of course, meet many people. And that is annoying. They rob you. In the evening, you’re probably in a state of great sadness. At least that’s how you would feel if the phone didn’t prevent you from thinking about it, constantly holding out its hand to you. Yet, it’s very interesting – with you, a person has time. If it’s for a second, there’s “time” for a second. You are present in the handshake, in the greeting, and even in the farewell. You hurry only in the world of things. And secretly, without even knowing it, you walk slowly in the garden. And this true pace of yours is infinitely dear to me.
This probably means that you are indissoluble. But still, be very careful. It’s draining to frequently turn the knobs of a radio, even if a person is somewhat indissoluble. Even if one knows how to turn a second of Bach into eternity. Fools are very dangerous. Intelligent people, too, when gathered in groups. Intelligence is a path. A hundred paths together form a square. That already loses its meaning. And it discourages.
I am becoming an old man with a white beard, shaking my head. It seems I regret my youth spent on an ox cart. I must have been a Merovingian king once. But all my life I have run. But I’m a little tired of running. Only today do I understand the Chinese proverb: “Three things hinder the spirit from rising. First, travel...” And what Derain* told me twenty times: “I know only three truly great people. All three were illiterate. One was a Savoy shepherd, one was a fisherman, and one was a beggar. They had never left their native places. Throughout my life, they have been the only ones I have respected...”
And more, the delightful words of the unfortunate José Laval upon her return from the United States: "I’m glad I’m returning. I haven’t grown up to skyscrapers. I’m at the level of the donkey..."
And I get upset by kilometer markers. They lead nowhere. We should have been born in another time.
While I wait for a calling to Solesmes (Gregorian chants are so beautiful!) or to a Tibetan monastery, or to gardening, I start pulling the gas lever again, speeding at six hundred kilometers per hour and going nowhere.
So, Yvonne, dear Yvonne, I came to take a walk in this letter, which is nothing special and surely hard to read (I’m too old to fix my handwriting). But that doesn’t matter. I just came to sit in friendship for five minutes of eternity.
Saint-Exupéry
There’s no need for you to reply, because I think letters never reach this remote end**, and soon I will be in Algeria. I’ll call by phone. A plane is leaving, I’m sending this letter by it.***
- André Derain (1880–1954) – French artist and sculptor, worked in the style of Fauvism and Cubism – Editor's note.
** The base of Saint-Exupéry's squadron at that time was on the island of Sardinia. – Editor's note.
*** The letter was published in Bulgarian in Military Notes, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry – State Military Publishing House, 1988.