07
ONTHEFIFTHDAY,thanksagaintothesheep,anothersecretofthelittleprinceslifewasrevealedtome.Abruptlywithnopreamble,heaskedme,asifitwerethefruitofaproblemlongponderedinsilence:
“Ifasheepeatsbushes,doesiteatflowers,too?”
“Asheepeatswhateveritfinds.”
“Evenflowersthathavethorns?”
“Yes.Evenflowersthathavethorns.”
“Thenwhatgoodarethorns?”
Ididntknow.AtthatmomentIwasverybusytryingtounscrewaboltthatwasjammedinmyengine.Iwasquiteworried.formyplanecrashwasbeginningtoseemextremelyserious.andthelackofdrinkingwatermademefearthewors.
“Whatgoodarethorns?”
ThelittlePrinceneverletgoofaquestionhehaddaskedit.IwasannoyedbymyJammedbolt,andIansweredwithoutthinking.
“Thornsarenogoodforanything—theyrejusttheflowerswayofbeingmean!”
“Oh!"Butafterasilence,helashedoutatme,withasortofbitterness.“Idontbelieveyou!FlowersareweakTheyrenaive,Theyreassurethemselveswhateverwaytheycan.Theybelievetheirthornsmakethemfrightening...”
Imadetoanswer.AtthatmomentIwasthinkingIfthisboltstaysjammed.Illknockitoffwiththehammer.Againthelittleprincedisturbedmyreflections.
“Thenyouthinkflowers...”
“No,notatall.Idontthinkanything!Ijustsaidwhatevercameintomyhead.Imbusyherewithsomethingserious!”
Hestaredatme,astounded.
“‘Somethingserious’!”
Hesawmeholdingmyhammer,myfingersblackwithgrease,bendingoveranobjectheregardedasveryugly.
“Youtalklikethegrown-ups!”Thatmademealittleashamed.Butheadded,mercilessly:“Youconfuseeverything...Youvegotitallmixedup!"Hewasreallyveryannoyed.Hetossedhisgoldencurlsinthewind.”Iknowaplanetinhabitedbyared-facedgentleman.Hesneversmelledaflower.Hesneverlookedatastar.Hesneverloved,anyone.Hesneverdoneanythingexceptadd-upnumbers.Andalldaylonghesaysoverandover,justlikeyou,‘Imaseriousman!Imaseriousman!’Andthatpuffshimupwithpride.Buthesnotamanatall—hesamushroom!”“Hesawhat?”“Amushroom!"Thelittleprincewasnowquitepalewithrage."Formillionsofyearsflowershavebeenproducingthorns.FormillionsofyearssheephavebeeneatingthemallJustsaidthesame.Anditsnotserious,tryingtounderstandwhysomethingflowersgotosuchtroubletoproducethornsthataregoodfornothing?Itsnotimportant,thewarbetweenthesheepandtheflowers?Itsnomoreseriousandmoreimportantthanthenumbersthatfatredgentlemanisaddingup?SupposeIhappentoknowauniqueflower,onethatexistsnowhereintheworldexceptonmyplanet,onethatalittlesheepcanwipeoutinasinglebiteonemorning,justlikethat,withoutevenrenamingwhathesdoing—thatisntimportant?"Hisfaceturnedrednow,andhewenton."Ifsomeonelovesaflowerofwhichjustoneexampleexistsamongallthemillionsandmillionsofstars,thatsenoughtomakehimhappywhenhelooksatthestars.Hetellshimself,‘Myflowersuptheresomewhere...’Butifthesheepeatstheflower,thenforhimitsasifsuddenly,allthestarswentout.Andthatisntimportant?“Hecouldntsayanotherword.Allofasuddenheburstoutsobbing.Nighthadfallen.Idroppedmytools.WhatdidIcareaboutmyhammer,aboutmybolt,aboutthirstanddeath?Therewas,ononestar,ononeplanet,onmine,theEarth,alittleprincetobeconsoled!Itookhiminmyarms.Irockedhim.Itoldhim,“Thefloweryouloveisnotindanger...Illdrawyouamuzzleforyoursheep...Illdrawyouafenceforyourflower...I...”Ididntknowwhattosay.HowclumsyIfelt!Ididntknowhowtoreachhim,wheretofindhim...Itssomysterious,thelandoftears.
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