d； in the magical instruments set like jewels in their panel and glimmering like a constellation in the dark of night。 The mineral glow of the artificial horizon； these stethoscopes designed to take the heartbeat of the heavens； are things a pilot loves。 The cabin of a plane is a world unto itself； and to the pilot it is home。
I took off； and though the load of fuel was heavy； I got easily away。 I avoided Paris with a jerk and up the Seine； at Melun； I found myself flying very low between showers of rain。 I was heading for the valley of the Loire。 Nevers lay below me； and then Lyon。 Over the Rhone I was shaken up a bit。 Mt。 Ventoux was capped in snow。 There lies Marignane and here es Marseille。
The towns slipped past as in a dream。 I was going so far … or thought I was going so far … that these wretched little distances were covered before I was aware of it。 The minutes were flying。 So much the better。 There are times when； after a quarter…hour of flight； you look at your watch and find that five minutes have gone by； other days when the hands turn a quarter of an hour in the wink of an eye。 This was a day when time was flying。 A good omen。 I started out to sea。
Very odd； that little stream of vapor rising from the fuel gauge on my port wing！ It might almost be a plume of smoke。
〃Prevot！〃
My mechanic leaned towards me。
〃Look！ Isn't that gas？ Seems to me it's leaking pretty fast。〃
He had a look and shook his head。
〃Better check our consumption；〃 I said。
I wasn't turning back yet。 My course was still get for Tunis。 I looked round and could see Prevot at the gauge on the second fuel tank aft。 He came forward and said：
〃You've used up about fifty gallons。〃
Nearly twenty had leaked away in the wind！ That was serious。 I put back to Marignane where I drank a cup of coffee while the time lost hurt like an open wound。 Flyers in the Air France service wanted to know whether I was bound for Saigon or Madagascar and wished me luck。 The tank was patched up and refilled； and I took off once more with a full load； again without mishap despite a bit of rough going over the soggy field。 Title： Wind； Sand； and Stars
Author： Antoine de Saint…Exupery
Translator： Lewis Galantiere
Publisher： Harcourt Brace Javanovich； New York； 1967
Date first posted： February 2000
Date most recently updated： January 2006
XML markup by Wesman 02/23/2000。
Wind Sand and Stars
Antoine de Saint…Exupery
9
Barcelona and Madrid （1936）
0NCE again I had found myself in the presence of a truth and had failed to recognize it。 Consider what had happened to me： I had thought myself lost； had touched the very bottom of despair； and then； when the spirit of renunciation had filled me； I had known peace。 I know now what I was not conscious of at the time…that in such an hour a man feels that he has finally found himself and has bee his own friend。 An essential inner need has been satisfied； and against that satisfaction； that self…fulfilment； no external power can prevail。 Bonnafous； I imagine； he who spent his life racing before the wind； was acquainted with this serenity of spirit。 Guillaumet； too； in his snows。 Never shall I forget that； lying buried to the chin in sand； strangled slowly to death by thirst； my heart was infinitely warm beneath the desert stars。
What can men do to make known to themselves this sense of deliverance？ Everything about mankind is paradox。 He who strives and conquers grows soft。 The magnanimous man grown rich bees mean。 The creative artist for whom everything is made easy nods。 Every doctrine swears that it can breed men； but none can tell us in advance what sort of men it will breed。 Men are not cattle to be fattened for market。 In the scales of life an indigent Newton weighs more than a parcel of prosperous nonentities。 All of us have had the experience of a sudden joy that came when nothing in the world had forewarned us of its ing…a joy so thrilling that if it was born of misery we remembered even the misery with tenderness。 All of us； on seeing old friends … I again； have remembered with happiness the trials we lived through with those friends。 Of what can we be certain except this…that we are fertilized by mysterious circumstances？ Where is man's truth to be found 1
Truth is not that which can be demonstrated by the aid of logic。 If orange…trees are hardy and rich in fruit in this bit of soil and not that； then this bit of soil is what is truth for orange…trees。 If a particular religion； or culture； or scale of values； if one form of activity rather than another； brings self…fulfilment to a man； releases the prince asleep within him unknown to himself； then that scale of values； that culture； that form of activity； constitute his truth。 Logic； you say？ Let logic wangle its own explanation of life。
Because it is man and not flying that concerns me most； I shall close this book with the story of man's gropings towards self…fulfilment as I witnessed them in the early months of the civil war in Spain； One year after crashing in the desert I made a tour of the Catalan front in order to learn what happens to man when the scaffolding of his traditions suddenly collapses。 To Madrid I went for an answer to another question： How does it happen that men are sometimes willing to die？
I
Flying west from Lyon； I veered left in the direction of the Pyrenees and Spain。 Below me floated fleecy white clouds； summer clouds； clouds made for amateur flyers in which great gaps opened like skylights。 Through one of these windows I could see Perpignan lying at the bottom of a well of light。
I was flying solo； and as I looked down on Perpignan I was day…dreaming。 I had spent six months there once while serving as test pilot at a near…by airdrome。 When the day's work was done I would drive into this town where every day was as peaceful as Sunday。 I would sit in a wicker chair within sound of the cafe band； sip a glass of port； and look idly on at the provincial life of the place； reflecting that it was as innocent as a review of lead soldiers。 These pretty girls； these carefree strollers； this pure sky。 。 。 。
But here came the Pyrenees。 The last happy town was left behind。
Below me lay Figueras； and Spain。 This was where men killed one another。 What was most astonishing here was not the sight of conflagration； ruin； and signs of man's distress…it was the absence of all these。 Figueras seemed no different from Perpignan。 I leaned out and stared hard。
There were no scars on that heap of white gravel； that church gleaming in the sun； which I knew had been burnt。 I could not distinguish its irreparable wounds。 Gone was the pale smoke that had carried off its gilding； had melted in the blue of the sky its altar screens； its prayer books； its sacerdotal treasures。 Not a line of the church was altered。 This town； seated at the heart of its fan…shaped roads like a spider at the centre of its silken trap； looked very much like the other。
Like other towns； this one was nourished by the fruits of the plain that rose along the white highways to meet it。 All that I could discern was the slow gnawing which； through the centuries； had swallowed up the soil； driven away the forests； divided up the fields； dug out these life…giving irrigation ditches。 Here was a face unlikely to change much； for it was already old。 A colony of bees； I said to myself； once it was established so solidly within the boundaries of an acre of flowers； would be assured of peace。 But peace is not given to a colony of men。
Human drama does not show itself on the surface of life。 It is not played out in the visible world； but in the hearts of men。 Even in happy Perpignan a victim of cancer walled up behind his hospital window goes round and round in a circle striving helplessly to escape the pain that hovers over him like a relentless kite。 One man in misery can disrupt the peace of a city。 It is another of the miraculous things about mankind that there is no pain nor passion that does not radiate to the ends of the earth。 Let a man in garret but burn with enough intensity and he will set fire to the world。
Gerona went by； Barcelona loomed into view； and I let myself glide gently down from the perch of my observatory。 Even here'1 could see nothing out of the way； unless it was that the avenues were deserted。 Again there were devastated churches which； from above； looked untouched。 Faintly visible was something that I guessed to be smoke。 Was that one of the signs I was seeking？ Was this a scrap of evidence of that nearly soundless anger whose all…destroying wrath was so hard to measure？ A whole civilization was contained in that faint golden puff so lightly dispersed by a breath of wind。
I am quite convinced of the sincerity of people who say： 〃Terror in Barcelona？ Nonsense。 That great city in ashes？ A mere twenty houses wrecked。 Streets heaped with the dead？ A few hundred killed out of a population of a million。 Where did you see a firing line running with blood and deafening with the roar of guns？〃
I agree that I saw no firing line。 I saw groups of tranquil men and women strolling on the Ramblas。 When； on occasion； I ran against a barricade of militiamen in arms； a smile was often enough to open the way before me。 I did not e at once upon the firing line。 In a civil war the firing line is invisible； it passes through the hearts of men。 And yet； on my very first night in Barcelona I skirted it。
I was sitting on the pavement of a cafe； sipping my drink surrounded by light…hearted men and women； when suddenly four armed men stopped where I sat； stared at a man at the next table； and without a word pointed their guns at his stomach。 Streaming with sweat the man stood up and raised leaden arms above his head。 One of the militiamen ran his hands over his clothes and his eyes over some papers he found in the man's pockets； and ordered him to e along。
The man left his half…emptied glass； the last glass of his life； and started down the road。 Surrounded by the squad； his hands stuck up like the hands of a man going down for the last time。
〃Fascist！〃 A woman behind me said it with contempt。 She was the only witness who dared betray that anything out of the ordinary had taken place。 Untouched； the man's glass stood on the table； a mute witness to a mad confidence in chance； in forgiveness； in life。 I sat watching the disappearance in a ring of rifles of a man who five minutes before； within two feet of me； had crossed the invisible firing line。
My guides were anarchists。 They led me to the railway station where troops were being entrained。 Far from the platforms built for tender farewells； we were walking in a desert of signal towers and switching points； stumbling in the rain through a labyrinthine yard filled with blackened goods wagons where tarpaulins the color of lard were spread over carloads of stiffened forms。 This world had lost its human quality； had bee a world of iron； and therefore uninhabitable。 A ship remains a living thing only so long as man with his brushes and oils swabs an artificial layer of light over it。 Leave them to themselves a couple of weeks and the life dies out of your ship； your